Felt Like A Lifetime
by Ashley A
Summary: Post movie AU. Given the choice, where will home truly be? WiP. Slashy tendencies.
1. One

Author: Ashley

Title: Felt Like A Lifetime

Rated: PG for now. Harder later.

Summary: Post movie AU. No Guinevere. Lancelot survives. Arthur and the knights rescued the Honorius family, and Arthur chose to stay at the wall for the sake of his beliefs.

Given their papers of freedom, where will home actually be?

Pairings: Implied G/G, A/L

Disclaimer: movie versions.

Feedback is welcomed and craved.

Archive: Yep.

One.

Most of the time Arthur could convince himself not to think of it.

The last sixteen years of his life; a large blank. He preferred it that way. The concept of euphamisms seemed to have been created for Arthur alone in those situations when he was forced to speak of it, and he had become a master of vague storytelling.

The senators and sycophants who had first swirled around him upon his return to Rome had gradually slacked off when they realized Arthur wasn't looking for any advancement, or favors, or anything really.

They all scratched their heads, puzzled; how could a man who had spent fifteen years in a godforsaken foreign backwater like Britain not want _anything_ for his service to the Empire?

There had been whisperings of Arthur's bad reaction to the death of his mentor, and a defiant Arthur turning his back on Rome, staying longer than his required term to help fight a large Saxon incursion. There were also whisperings that a few of Arthur's knights had died in that battle, and he had never forgiven himself for it. All the same, no matter who tried to worm the true story out of him, they were all met with the same result.

Euphamisms, faint smiles, and the back of Arthur's head as he walked away.

The house Arthur had taken over had been bequeathed to him by Pelagius, which he had discovered upon his return.

It was small, outside the main city, but big enough for him and the few people he kept to help run it. It contained a small apple orchard, and a good sized stable. Pelagius had always loved riding.

The first few months Arthur had been back in Rome, he had tried, with a quiet desperation, to fit back into roman society. It was a losing battle. The things he had done, the life he had lead for so long was a hill he just couldn't climb.

And to be truthful, in his heart of hearts, he hadn't wanted to. All of the things he had learned, all of the things he had experienced while in Britain, were things he couldn't let go of. At dinners, at senate functions, all he could see when he looked at the people around him was the mortality he knew lurked behind the pretty paint and heavy jewels.

He smiled, and made polite conversation, and fended off the mothers who tried to set him up with their unmarried daughters. He was almost forty; but he was untaken and a former military commander, thus, perfectly eligible.

Each night when he returned to his house from this function or that event, he bathed, scrubbing so hard most of the time he broke his skin, the blood running down his arm or leg a comfort, a familiar sight that stilled the frantic hammering of his heart.

For fifteen years he had dreamed of returning here. Now that he had, it was not what he had expected; worse, it was full of debauchery and corruption as Lancelot had often told him it would be.

And there was another thing. That last battle, the horrid, red tinged, blurry fight that he tried so hard not to think on was something he couldn't take his mind off lately.

He had blocked out most of it for a long while; the journey home had been tedious and uneventful, and he had had lots of time to practise not thinking. It had almost worked.

Most nights on the way to Rome, he would awaken in a heavy sweat, his skin flushed, and Jols quietly at his side. The squire would hand Arthur a canteen full of watered wine, which he accepted gratefully.

His dreams were the complete opposite of his waking time. Visions of Tristan, dying under the huge Saxon commander's hand, with Tristan's own sword, made him cry out and thrash in his sleep.

The arrow that had embedded itself in his second in command's shoulder, so tiny, seemed quite huge to Arthur's sleeping mind. It was made worse by the fact that Lancelot had actually survived the wound, only to tell Arthur he was leaving as soon as it healed enough for him to ride.

Lancelot had closed up that day; Arthur had watched as his closest friend and other half had drawn away from him. Their parting had been stilted and awkward; Arthur had embraced Lancelot stiffly; Lancelot hadn't said anything except for farewell.

Arthur had watched as the other man rode away, part of him in shock, the other part angry, so angry at the way they had made their goodbyes.

He had turned when Lancelot was almost on the horizon, his face a mask, his extremities numb as he returned to the garrison, and his own packing. He wouldn't stay there; Gawain and Galahad had left a few weeks previous, Bors was taking his family away, and the others were dead. Arthur had nothing left.

So he had gone home.

The morning he had left, Jols handed him a small parcel wrapped in a tattered piece of cloth, and had left Arthur alone in the stables to open it.

What it had contained had almost reduced Arthur, a master of stoicism, to rough tears - a single note, which read "I'll never forget," and the small lion pendant Lancelot's sister had given him.

This particular day, Arthur stood, half clad in breeches and boots, shoveling manure into a pile.

He enjoyed the work; it allowed him to him sleep at night, and chased away most of the dreams. A year in Rome, and he had figured out a way to make his existance one he could stand. Not the lofty dreams he had had of his future when he was young and Pelagius had been alive. Just a life. For now, he was alright with it.

The sound of hooves and the clattering of carriage wheels snapped him from his reverie, and he straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his discarded shirt before pulling it on.

"Commander!" Jols shouted, then winced as Arthur frowned. "Arthur," he corrected, "Lady Ligeia and her daughter are here."

Arthur's brows drew together even further. "Now? Today? I thought you said they were coming on Thursday."

Jols shook his head, and shoved Arthur away from the pile of fertilizer. "It _is_ Thursday, Arthur."

Great God. Arthur hastily wiped his hands on his pants, and shrugged. He didn't care what he looked like, but to noble ladies, the notion of a member of the equestrian class doing his own chores would seem outlandish, if not downright crazy.

Arthur heard female voices, and made his way to the front of his house. Smiling mechanically, he approached the two women, and bowed his head.

"Lady Ligeia, Lady Olivia," he said, greeting them. "I apologize for my appearance; I lost track of time. Please, come inside."

The older of the two women tilted her head, and smiled at Arthur. A genuine smile. She was tall, almost as tall as a normal sized man, and had dark hair that had been braided artfully around her round face. Arthur liked her; she was educated, and pleasant to speak with. She never asked him to talk of his past, and he appreciated her for that fact alone.

Ligeia and her fourteen year old daughter Olivia were the closest neighbors Arthur had, their horse farm being about two leagues from his land. At first he hadn't wanted to get to know the widow, but she had pestered him constantly, bringing over food, visiting him on holidays, and generally making a nuisance of herself. Arthur had finally relented, if only to get her to back off, but when he allowed himself to actually get to know her, he found to his surprise they had many ideals in common.

"Digging in the dirt again, Arthur?" she laughed, and he raised his eyebrows, spreading his hands. "Guilty as charged. Don't let your mother fool you, Olivia; spending time outside is one of the few joys left in this day and age."

The young girl blushed, and stammered a reply. Arthur wasn't quite sure, but he had the vague notion she had a crush on him.

So he merely smiled, and gestured for them to enter.

Several thousand leagues away, the snorting bay mare tried her best to buck off the rider currently trying to tame her.

Cursing loudly, the man atop the horse finally gave up the ghost and allowed himself to be flung off, grimmacing as he landing squarely on his arse.

"Lancelot," Galahad shouted, "you're getting better by the day!"

Muttering under his breath, Lancelot limped away from the mare, and his eyes shot daggers at Galahad. "You're not so old that I can't still best you, so I'd keep your mouth shut, young sir."

"Not so young," Galahad shot back, but left Lancelot alone. The other man hadn't been the same for a long while. Galahad had a general idea what it was – but the only person he had voiced it to was Gawain, and neither of them thought bringing it up was worth the thrashing they would surely receive.

"Or at least he'd try," Galahad murmured, and began to edge closer to the horse, reaching for her rope as Lancelot stomped off to his wagon.

The night was gorgeous as usual, and Lancelot was full. He lay on his back on a soft rug brought from the garrison, _why not take some things, he had earned it after all_, and toyed with the small dagger he kept in his boot.

The incident with the horse today only proved to him what he had been avoiding dealing with for several months now – the person he thought he was, or thought he would become when he got the chance to return home, had abandoned him. Lancelot, the knight, the sarcastic, silly, talented sword master was nowhere to be found.

Instead, Lancelot, the empty, broken, shell of a former warrior filled his skin, and he hated every minute they were together.

He knew, he felt to his core what it was. And he was damned if he would even think the man's name. Lancelot had left, no promises, no words of love or loyalty. He had made it a clean break. What could they have done? Gone to Rome together? Lived somewhere in Britain, just the two of them, doing what, raising horses? Training children in the art of war?

The thought of it made him snort, and he flung the knife down in disgust.

"He chose his own path," he said outloud, to the stars twinkling overhead. "I'd not stay and get in his way. No, not me."

So…why was he so miserable if he had made the right choice?

Lancelot had returned after a month of hard riding to his family's ancestral lands…and found them all wiped out. Mother, father, dead. Sister, married off to some foreign lord and living beyond the Steppes.

Brothers, dead or married as well.

He had been torn then; what to do? This was home, Sarmatia. But it hadn't felt like home. Not to his soul. Not in the night, when he awoke with wetness on his face and a clenching in his gut that no drink or food could ease.

He rubbed at the scar over his heart; it burned occasionally. He missed the familiar weight of his lion pendant, but he knew that he had left it with the right person. It was the only gesture he could have made without open communication. He couldn't face the other man with the gift. He wasn't sure if he could have left. It had been hard enough not to clutch at him, to stare into those eyes, so mesmerizing in their brightness.

Lancelot had had to bite at the inside of his cheek when Arthur had embraced him to keep from falling at the other man's feet and begging Arthur to come with him.

Instead he had gotten on his horse, and gone home.

He was on the verge of drifting off to other places when Gawain and Galahad had shown up. Happy for the distraction, Lancelot and the two had become traveling companions, going as far east as the highest mountains, and were currently camped the furthest west they had ever been, outside of a city called Brigantium. The extra horses they had bought along the way, although Lancelot was certain Mithras was playing a joke on them with their latest acquisition.

Gawain and Galahad had been content up until now to travel aimlessly with Lancelot; however, the closer they got to Italy, the closer they got to Rome, they became restless, and wary. Lancelot didn't blame them, he too felt the weird tug of the city. Arthur had spoken of it so many times, and in such awe that Lancelot felt he would be remiss in not visiting it.

The one time Gawain had mentioned it, though, Lancelot had shut down, not speaking for hours. Neither of the other two men ever spoke of it again, but were not surprised when they noticed in their travels that Lancelot was leading them southwest, and toward Rome.

The stars shone, and Lancelot could hear gentle bickering coming from the direction of Gawain's tent, then shortly, the not so gentle sound of Galahad's snoring.

_Sounds like a goat. How can Gawain stand it?_

He forced his eyes open, and his mind to be blank and calm. He allowed the sounds of the night to soothe him, and gradually he felt his hands unclench, his body relax.

Jolting awake some hours later, the moon still out and full dawn not yet come, Lancelot rolled over, scrubbing hastily at his face.

Gawain crouched next to him suddenly, and it was only because Lancelot knew the tread of his feet that he hadn't tried to gut the other man.

"We're going there, aren't we?" Gawain asked. Lancelot met his gaze, a bit muddled at first. "What? Where – oh." He sat up, and wiped the remaining tears off his face. He hung his head between his knees, and when he spoke, it was so quietly he wasn't sure the other man had heard him.

"He won't let me be, Gawain."

Gawain nodded once, joining Lancelot on the ground. He put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder briefly, warmly, then put it back in his lap. "I know, Lancelot. You call for him in your sleep every night."

Lancelot felt he should show surprise, but he didn't, because he knew Gawain was right. He had just been choosing to ignore it.

"You two don't have to go with me," he said at last. Gawain shook his head, grinning at Lancelot. "You think we'll let you go to Rome without us? Galahad would cleave you in twain at the very idea."

Lancelot surpressed a laugh at that image, and stared into Gawain's eyes. "Last chance, brother. I'm going south tomorrow. Are you sure?"

Gawain merely cocked an eyebrow. Lancelot tilted his head. "Very well, then. Rome it is."

_And Arthur_.

Finally allowing himself to think Arthur's name gave Lancelot a sense of quiet he hadn't had in over a year. He rolled over, and promptly fell back asleep. He did not dream.

end one.


	2. Two

Two.

Arthur and Ligeia wandered through the garden at the back of his house, while Olivia went with Jols to the stables to see the new mare Arthur had bought.

Arthur watched the widow out of the corner of his eye as they walked. She consistantly managed to amaze him with her wit and knowledge. He hadn't had much exposure to 'ideal' Roman ladies; those that supposedly fit that mold bored him to tears. Aside from the fact that the softness of their bodies, the delicate actions, the lack of conversational material – well, he wasn't used to it. Fifteen plus years in the company of only men, and one gets used to certain things. Like the roughness of a beard against one's face, calloused hands in place of gentle ones, hard flesh versus pliable.

Arthur forced his mind out of that line of thinking, and tried to concentrate on the here and now. "You were away there for a moment," she said kindly, smiling. He noticed that her eyes weren't just brown, but a gold flecked dark color that seemed to change when they passed in and out of sunlight.

"I apologize, lady. My memories and mind have a way of making themselves known whether I want them to be or not. You may find that quality in me tedious."

Ligeia stopped him with a hand on his arm. Arthur looked down at her, cocking his head. "I don't think I could find any of your qualities tedious, Arthur," she said softly. "You know I wouldn't be here if I didn't enjoy your company."

The corner of Arthur's mouth rose, and he patted her hand before he realized he was doing it.

The lady Ligeia was not someone he would have thought to be friends with. Her former husband, who's horse farm it was she and her daughter were living on, had died several years earlier. The man hadn't been reputed to be the kindest of husbands, and he and Ligeia's marriage had been set up by her family. He had also been much older than the lady, and Arthur could only imagine the terror she must have felt in being forced to join with someone so – different.

She had had the one child from the union, and it was widely known that her husband hadn't been all that happy to have a girl instead of a son, an heir to his money and to carry on his name.

Ligeia had tried to shield her daughter from that knowledge, but didn't suceed that well, and Arthur knew that Olivia was the way she was as a result. Very shy, quiet, and jumpy. He got angry thinking that any father could treat their child that way – and not as the blessing they were.

Ligeia's eyes widened at the touch of his hand, but she didn't pull away. Rather she curled her fingers around his briefly, then let go. "You are uncommonly kind, Arthur. I find it hard to believe you were ever a commander in the military. From what I have seen and heard of the legion…well, they don't receive their reputation by accident."

Arthur's body stiffened a little at the mention of his past. Ligeia instantly looked contrite, and her brows drew together. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said hesitantly. "I don't mean to cause you pain."

_I'm already in pain._

"It's alright, lady. It's part of me…and actually, I wasn't in the legion. I was a calvary commander," he trailed off, shocked that he had said that much. She was the first one he had spoken to of it.

Strangely enough, saying even only a little about it made a small tightness in his shoulders disappear. Turning, he moved to a nearby bench, in the shade of a large poplar, and sat, gesturing for her to join him.

"Arthur," Ligeia started hesitantly, "I am your friend. I hope you know that if the need should arise, you can tell me anything. You can talk to me."

_Why do you always talk to god and not to me?_

Arthur's back spasmed slightly, and he knew because the tightness that had vanished earlier was now back, it might be good to … talk about it. Some. And this lady – well, she was different than most. He looked into her eyes, and saw nothing but trust and willingness to listen there. He opened his mouth, having to take in a deep breath in order to work up enough courage to even _think_ back on those last few months.

"I know that – now. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine." He tilted his head, staring into the distance, and into the past few years, back to the end of everything.

"Tell me," she said softly, taking his hand. This time, she didn't let go. He blinked, and snapped back to the present.

"I can – tell you some of it," Arthur replied, his voice soft, uncertain. "It's not that I don't trust you, I promise. I just – I haven't spoken of this to anyone. I hadn't wanted to, or needed to." _Which is not the truth. But she doesn't need to know that_.

Ligeia squeezed his hand, and forced him to look at her. "Arthur. I'm not going to break. I can take whatever you need to say … I would be a poor friend if I couldn't. As you probably know, I haven't had the easiest past either," she said, frowning slightly, "and I found that the more I shared, eventually, the easier it was for me to let it go. We can never move on with our lives with the past overshadowing our here and now."

_She sounds just like him_.

Arthur felt a tiny shiver take his spine and shake it, but he ignored it like he always did. He wouldn't give her any details – just enough to get some of the tension out of his chest.

"You know my father was Roman, but my mother was a Briton?" he asked quietly. Ligeia nodded. "I have heard a few stories of them."

He closed his eyes briefly. _Rumors flew oh so fast_. His gaze followed Olivia, who was outside the stables and examining the heather plants near the doors.

He ran a hand over his face; suddenly all the noise and natural sounds of the day seemed overly loud and made his ears ring. He tilted his eyes to the left, and tried to take the measure of the woman sitting next to him. Trust – not so easy for him. He had failed too many comrades to trust anyone or to let someone trust or rely on him. He wasn't one to rely on. He knew that; no amount of self flagelation would allow him to forget it.

She was waiting, her eyes soft and open, her hand in his warm. He took another deep breath, and decided to just do it.

"I took command of a group of Sarmatian conscripts like my father did when I was 16. You know of the agreement between Marcus Aurelius and the Sarmatians?"

She did.

"They were my age or younger. I'm sure they didn't believe their eyes when they were told their commander was a mere boy – and a halfbreed one at that." He smiled at the memory; those early years seemed like a story he had been told by an aged relative.

She squeezed his fingers again, encouraging him to go on. He swallowed and continued.

"It was – difficult, at first. They didn't want to be there, and I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing. The first battle? Nightmare. Too many lost, stupidly and too easily." He could actually taste the blood on his tongue from his first major wound; a Woad scout had managed to slice his blade into Arthur's cheek, and he had bitten through his lip when the knife had hit home. He still had a small scar from it.

Once he had allowed some of the memories to come forth, Arthur found he couldn't stop. He spoke quietly for an hour, Ligeia merely nodding and making 'hmm' noises at the right times. He didn't include any of the emotions he had been feeling throughout those years; he didn't include the importance of his relationship with Lancelot, or the way things had gotten so close he had been sure the other man had been the missing bit of his soul. He only spoke of him as his second in command, and how they had become fast friends.

He had to speak rapidly when he recalled the end, when the little family he had created had broken apart. He was horrified when his eyes actually burned, and he stared blankly at the stables and Jols excercising the horses to make himself separate the emotions from the facts.

If Ligeia noticed his hands trembling, she ignored it. She ran her thumb over his fingers once, and kept listening.

He trailed off. She was silent, and he was afraid for a moment that he had scared her with the intensity of his telling. Ladies were not exactly used to battle talk.

She surprised him by smiling. "Arthur," she said gently, "you are a good man. You lived through a horrible, hard time. You inspired loyalty in men who had no reason to be loyal. You should be proud – and instead, you punish yourself for not doing enough. Don't argue," she interrupted at the look on his face, "I can tell by your expression."

He sighed; god, was he that easy to read still? He tired of being so open. It caused more pain than it was worth.

He opened his mouth to say something about it, but gave up. She was right, and he knew it. He smiled instead. "One of my tedious qualities."

She shook her head, and leant closer. He wasn't sure how to react – he wasn't used to anyone being in close proximity to him anymore. "Nothing about you is tedious," she replied softly, and looked at him through lowered lashes.

He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts of another pair of brown eyes away, took a chance, and brushed his lips across hers delicately. She jerked once, her lids flying open, but responded. Their fingers intertwined, and she sighed a little as he increased the pressure.

"Arthur," she said against his mouth.

_"Arthur," Lancelot said, "Come here. I can't reach you all the way over there." _

Laughing, Arthur rolled off the rock he had been sunning on, and wrapped his arms around the warm, lean body of Lancelot, and kissed him.

Arthur's eyes snapped open, and he pulled away from Ligeia, who was looking at him with a troubled expression on her face. "What? What is it?"

Arthur blinked, and the image of Lancelot's face disappeared from his mind, and he met the gaze of the woman in front of him.

"Oh, Ligeia, I – I'm sorry, forgive me," he said, words coming in a rush. "I can't – please. Please excuse me." He stood, running hands over his clothing reflexively, and hurried off toward the house.

He could feel the heat of Ligeia's stare on his back, and cursed himself. No friends, no contact. That had been the plan. Damn it all to hell.

He sat in his study, brooding and staring at a map of Roman Britain that was mounted on the wall when Jols informed him the ladies had left. "Is everything alright, Com – Arthur?" the squire asked. Bless him. Arthur was very glad to still have the man around. "Yes, Jols," he answered distractedly, gazing at the map.

"Dinner?"

"Hmmm? Oh, not now. Go ahead – I'll find something later." Jols nodded, and exited the room. The lines on the map blurred and shifted, and Arthur allowed himself to feel as the door shut behind the squire. His face crumpled in the darkness of the room, and if any of his household happened to be passing by at that moment, they mentioned nothing about the dry sobs they heard coming from Arthur's study.

A few days after leaving the outskirts of Brigantium, Lancelot and the others pulled up in a small, dusty town full of farmers and the hugest amount of loose chickens Lancelot had ever seen.

Waving a hand in front of his face, he approached a young woman running a market stall, and put on his best smile. "My lady," he said, affecting the charm he knew he still possessed, "we are but poor travelers making our way to Rome. Can you tell me how much further it is?" He leant upon one elbow, gazing at her through his lashes. She grinned and gushed her answer.

"Only a week's hard ride, kind sir. Would you and your companions care for some nurishment? I grow them myself. Apples," she said, gesturing at the piles of shiny red things. Lancelot licked his lips, and smiled back. "I would be honored to partake of your – fruit." He fell forward over the stand when Gawain elbowed him in the back. Frowning at the other man, Lancelot picked up an apple and bit into it to avoid saying something inelegant in front of the young woman.

"Thank you, lady," Gawain said, and handed her a coin. She dimpled, and moved to talk to a few others who had begun to eye her wares.

"Lancelot – must you always be so – irritating?" Galahad asked, coming up behind the other two men. Lancelot's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he placed a hand over his heart, chucking the core of the apple away as he finished the food. "Me? Irritating? Galahad, I'm not sure what your definition of 'irritating' is, but believe me, you haven't seen it yet." He had begun with a teasing tone, but his voice had dropped at the end of the statement. Galahad merely rolled his eyes, and turned to Gawain.

"You brough us along with this joker why?" Gawain shook his head tightly; Lancelot had walked away from them, his back stiff and his gait awkward.

"What?" Galahad asked. Gawain made a face. "Go easy on him, Gal," he replied, "he's not doing so well." Galahad made a pfffft noise at that. "And we are? We fought for this 'Empire' for fifteen years, Gawain, and here we are, going _voluntarily_ into the lion's den? We must be crazy."

"Not crazy, my friend," Gawain answered, watching as Lancelot mounted his horse and trotted away toward the small copse of trees on the outskirts of town that would serve as their camp for the night. "Loyal. To a fault, I'm beginning to think."

The fire crackled, and Lancelot's traveling companions spoke softly amongst themselves as he tossed in his bedroll underneath the clear sky that had accompanied them most of the way.

At last he sighed in anger, and stood up, his blankets falling around him. Gawain looked up as he passed. "I'll be back," was all he said, and Gawain nodded in response. Best not to press, given Lancelot's mood.

Lancelot stalked away from the small camp until he could no longer hear the voices of his friends, or smell the burning of the wood from their fire.

"Gods," he breathed, as he planted himself on a fallen tree that crossed his path. Catching his chin in his hand, he shut his eyes. "Am I doing the right thing?" he murmured. Gods damn the man. Lancelot never questioned his own judgement, except for when it came to Arthur. Arthur could say jump, and Lancelot would dive headfirst off the nearest cliff, as cliched as the idea was. And right at this moment, he hated himself for it.

"You bastard," he whispered, not sure if he was talking about himself, or the man who was responsible for his current state of flux. "I'll be damned if I turn around now."

He sat on the fallen tree for most of the night, snatching some rest before dawn came. He was dressed and ready when Gawain and Galahad woke, and he hearded them into action, not explaining his haste.

"Lancelot, for pity's sake," Galahad groused as they were buckling the last of their horses' girth straps, "We're not going to get to Rome any quicker by skipping breakfast." Lancelot stared at the younger man, until Galahad finally dropped his gaze, red tinging his cheeks.

"A week's hard ride," Lancelot commented to Gawain as the other man mounted up. "I think we can do it in five days, don't you?" And he was off, gigging his horse with his heels, a cloud of dust raised by his alacrity. Gawain soon followed, and Galahad brought up the rear, grumbling all the while.

"We'll be there when we get there, fool," he said to himself, "whether Arthur is ready to see us is another question entirely."

end two.


	3. Three

Three.

Arthur arose before the single rooster he owned had crowed. Four days had passed; he had spent them in a blur of back breaking, sweat inducing physical work on his home that left him too exhausted to worry about anything at night.

He was too ashamed to go and apologize to Ligeia. Too ashamed to admit that his heart was cleaved in two, and could only belong to the person who held the other half. He knew what he had done was cruel, but hadn't been able to force himself to visit her.

Thus, he was surprised when later in the day, as he worked on repairing a split bridle, a small voice roused him from his task.

"L-lord Castus?" He turned from the piece of leather, and looked up to see the shrinking form of Olivia, who was moving nervously from foot to foot, holding a small wicker basket.

"Lady Olivia," he greeted her with some shock in his tone. He stood, and bowed politely. She blushed, but curtseyed back with grace. He smiled, and dusted his hands off, glancing surreptitiously around for her mother. It seemed as if the young girl was alone.

"Lord, my mother sends her apologies, but she is not feeling her best today. However, she did want me to make sure you got these," Olivia said hastily, and thrust the basket at him. He took it, and pulled back the cloth covering, sighing happily at the sight of bread with fruit baked in.

"Your mother is too kind," he said, and tilted his head again. _Too kind by far_. "I made them," Olivia spouted, then clamped her mouth shut, embarassed by her outburst. "I will try them for certain, then," Arthur replied, and he thought the girl would explode with pride.

"I – I have to go," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the waiting carriage Arthur hadn't heard pull up. "But enjoy the food." She turned to go, then stopped, hesitating. "Come see us, please?" she said, her face crimson, but standing her ground. The corner of Arthur's mouth curled, and he bowed to her a last time. "I shall, as soon as my work allows."

Olivia scampered off, and Arthur watched as the hack that carried her disappeared into the distance.

He sighed, but this time in disappointment. At himself, his situation, his inability to get close at all, with anyone. And he had gone and hurt a kind woman, who only had his best interest at heart.

Breaking off a piece of the bread Olivia had brought, he chewed thoughtfully as he returned to the house.

The next day, as soon as it was respectable, Arthur sat outside Ligeia's farm, his horse shifting under him. The poor mare probably felt his twisting emotions, and he patted her neck absently as he tried to work up the courage to just go in and announce himself.

In his small pack he carried two gifts for Olivia and her mother, in thanks for the food from the day before, which had been remarkably wonderful.

Just as he had decided _to hell with it_, and was turning to go, he heard a shout. "Arthur!" _Damn_. He clucked to his horse, and they made their way inside the main gate, and up the path that led to the home.

Olivia grinned at him delightedly when he dismounted, and reminded him slightly of an overeager puppy as she led him into the house, a servant having taken his reins.

"I'm so glad you came," she gushed, her simple linen shift and sandals giving her a young look that made a strangely protective feeling come over Arthur. Her eyes twinkled at him, and she seemed a bit more relaxed than normal. He was happy to see it.

"I'm happy to be here," he answered, "I wanted to thank you for the bread you brought me. It was some of the best I've ever had," he finished. She blushed to the roots of her hair, and stammered. That was the Olivia he knew. He smiled as she made some comment about it being no trouble, when Ligeia breezed into the room.

She stopped short when she saw who it was, and dropped a curtsey stiffly. "Lord Castus," she said, and Arthur winced internally at the cool tone. "Lady," he answered, bowing his head. "I've come to thank you and your daughter for the kindness you bestowed upon me yesterday. I truly appreciate being thought of."

Ligeia nodded, and Arthur watched her reactions like a hawk, trying to best judge how to talk to her.

"I – have something for you and Olivia, if you don't think it too forward," he said hastily, wanting to wipe the grim look off Ligeia's face. She cocked an eyebrow, but he noticed that her stiff demeanor loosened up somewhat. Olivia looked to her mother, questioning with a glance. Ligeia nodded in approval.

"What is it, Arthur?" Olivia asked, dropping his formal name in her excitement. He winked at her, then drew out a small parcel wrapped in cloth from the small bag he had brought in with him. She took the object, and untied the ribbon holding the covering on.

"Oh," she whispered in awe upon discovery of the present's identity. A tiny gilt mirror, embellished with scrollwork reflected the girl's happy face, and she preened into for a moment, then remembered she wasn't alone. "Oh, Lord Castus, thank you! It's beautiful. Look, mother," Olivia said, and Arthur hated the tone he could hear in her speech; as if she hadn't received any kind of gift for a long while. Arthur knew that her mother was doting and overly protective of the girl, and he knew Olivia wasn't wanting for things. He could only assume she was so excited because the gift was from _him_ – the only male that paid her any attention now that her father was gone.

And he hadn't exactly paid her _any_ kind of attention, according to the local gossips.

Ligeia smiled broadly, first at Olivia, then at Arthur, who breathed a sigh of relief. "It is beautiful, darling. Look at you! What a kind gift, Arthur."

A true look of happiness crossed her features, which made Arthur in turn feel like he'd been made king for a day.

"Why don't you take it outside and show Anne?" Ligeia said, referring to the daughter of their household cook. Olivia nodded quickly, and ran off, holding the mirror to her chest.

Arthur crossed the room to where Ligeia was standing, taking in her simple clothing, basic hair style, and unadorned skin. He breathed in, and the smell of light patchouli wafted over his nostrils.

"I owe you an apology," he started, but was cut off by the shaking of her head. "No, Arthur. You don't. I overreacted. I'm truly sorry." She smiled tentatively, and sat on a stone bench that lined the wall of the entrance room they still stood in.

"Things haven't been – easy for me since Marcus died," she said softly. "I tend to get involved in people's business where I have none. I find myself trying to live vicariously through others," she laughed bitterly, "and more often than not, find out too late that I should have just left well enough alone in the first place."

Arthur merely watched as she spoke, sitting next to her. "I've been alone for a while now," she said, her cheeks growing pink, "You're the first man I've been really interested in getting to know better." She fidgeted in her seat, twisting her hands together, playing with the rings on her fingers. "I know I'm not exactly the most 'typical' of Roman ladies…but I do have a good heart. I promise you I won't get involved in your business again."

Arthur took up her hand before he realized he was doing it. She looked up at him, taken aback slightly, and flushed again when he drew her hand to his lips, brushing them lightly across her knuckles.

"You are the only one who has been genuine with me since I returned here," he replied, "and I thank you for that. I am touched and … to be honest, a bit overwhelmed that you would find me interesting enough to try and get to know me." She shook her head, and made to interrupt, but he held up a hand. "I'm not easy to be around, Ligeia. Even to myself. You're the first person I've opened up to since – since I came home. That means more to me than any of the ass kissing I've been given by my so called 'peers.' But," he sighed, "I'm not…I don't…it's better for both of us to be as we are."

_My soul's already spoken for. Even if it's owner is a world away_.

Ligeia nodded, and tried to draw her hand away. Arthur wouldn't let her, however, and she gave up fighting him.

"But," he added, "I would be sore remiss if I were to throw your friendship away on account of my fear. Please, can we be friends?"

Her chest heaved with a tight breath, then her hand in Arthur's relaxed. "I would like nothing more," she responded, just as quietly. "It would be good for Olivia to have you around, I think. She needs to see what a truly good man is like."

Arthur's guilt complex kicked into overdrive, but he pushed it down, knowing that he was offering her all that he could for now. Who knew; come more time, he might…

No.

"I have something for you as well," he said suddenly, remembering the other gift in his bag. Ligeia laughed, and let go of his hand as he dug in the satchel.

"Ah ha," he said, and presented her with a parcel wrapped in linen like Olivia's had been. She smiled ruefully. "You didn't need to bring me anything."

"I know. Just open it," Arthur responded.

She unwound the ribbon holding the package together, and gasped when the fabric fell away. "Oh, Arthur," she said, her hand going to her cheek briefly. "You – where did you get these?"

"They're Sarmatian, actually," he answered; that hadn't been her question, and he knew it.

_"These were bought as a present for my sister," Lancelot said, digging in the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed, as Arthur watched, lolling on the other man's bed. "I managed to trade for them before we were totally across the border. I had forgotten they were here."_

He tossed the small objects to Arthur, standing. The firelight glinted on his skin, reflecting pink on the many scars that decorated his torso. "Give them to some maid who eventually catches you."

_Arthur laughed. "Why? You don't like them in your own hair?" he said lightheartedly, turning the combs over in his hands. They were exquisite; black with small bits of pearl and fluorite decorating the tops. Lancelot glared at Arthur, but the effect was ruined by the buck nakedness of the other man._

_"Arthur," he said, frowning. Arthur smiled gently. He knew Lancelot's family was as sore a subject as his own was. "I'm teasing you, my friend," he said quietly. "Come here?" he beckoned, and sighed against Lancelot's warm flesh as the other man wrapped his body around Arthur's._

Arthur came back to the present when Ligeia moved quickly to the door that led to the small sun room in the center of the house, which had a huge glass roof that allowed the brightness of the day to shine on a reflection pool that housed goldfish. Ligeia's husband had been nothing if not extravagant in his decorating taste.

She leant over the pool, fixing the combs in her hair, and lowered her hands, checking her reflection.

"What do you think?" she asked, straightening up to face him, as he doggedly followed her, the ties of the past tugging at him, whispering his name in an all too familiar voice.

His heart broke at the sight of the striking, kind, dark haired woman in front of him, who knew nothing of her true beauty. She wore her soul on the outside, and Arthur was afraid it would one day get trampled under the foot of life.

He smiled, and took her hands, berating himself all the while for his inability to take what she was so willing to offer him. He would have a good life with her, he knew it.

But it would be a false one, and he knew that as well.

That knowledge didn't make it any easier to accept what he saw as a failure.

"I think you make them pale in comparison," he said, "and may they provide you with whatever joy you can find in them." Ligeia's hands tightened around his, and she tilted her head in concern. "That's very sad, Arthur," she said hesitantly, "this gift will very definitely bring me joy, I assure you. I will think of you when I see them. That in and of itself is a gift."

There came that empty feeling in his chest again.

The walls rose, and he smiled automatically. "Then I'm glad to give them to you."

She narrowed her eyes at his tone, but didn't say anything. Removing her hands, she clasped them together. "Would you do us the honor of joining us for lunch?"

Arthur's poor mare was very happy to see him at dusk when he finally left Ligeia and Olivia's horse farm. He was whistling when he strode into his own home, and Jols almost asked what ailed him, but refrained out of kindness.

Nothing bothered Arthur more than hurting someone, and the fact he could actually salvage his friendship with Ligeia was truly a cause for joy. He felt better than he had in weeks. His stomach growled suddenly, and he smirked, looking down at himself as he stood in his study, removing his boots and cloak.

"Bath first," he told himself, and made his way outside, and the steam that issued from the only luxury that he really affected, his traditional style bathhouse. He knew he could have water routed in from aquaducts – but the thing secretly reminded him of the garrison, and it was somehow relaxing.

Stripping off quickly, he made fast work of getting rid of the dirt from the day, and sank into the heated pool in the center of the room.

Shivering, he dunked his head, and came up sputtering. He took up a cloth and slowly began the ritual of cleansing, shutting his eyes like normal.

A few moments later, he opened them, feeling something wasn't quite right. He cocked his head, and like a sudden blow, the realization hit him that he wasn't worrying about anything.

His eyes widened, and his hand dropped to the water, the cloth forgotten.

Voices echoed to him from the past…his father's, his first commander's.

His mother's. Pelagius'.

His knights…Lancelot's.

"Oh," his own voice ghosted out of his lips, the breath making the steam in the room part slightly in front of him.

He raised his hands, examining them, watching as they trembled. He turned them over, found his pulse points, and followed the rhythmic thumping of his blood back into his blue veins, up his arms, to where it disappeared into his chest.

_You'll never be free of it, Castus_, the listless, sexless voice said in his mind. _You don't deserve to be._

"I know," he replied outloud, and lowered his hands, looking for the washing cloth he had dropped.

Arthur stood in trousers and bare feet in the bathhouse, wrapping a small piece of gauze around his forearm, the tear in his skin bad enough to warrant the bandage. The cloth he had been using to scrub himself he had tossed away; it had caught most of the blood, and was pretty much a ruined mess. He knew he should be horrified at what he had done, but he had become adept at locking away the coherent thought and image of scrubbing himself so raw he bled.

Besides, blood was no new sight to him. The fact that he still had blood to bleed, unlike some, was a rare gift to him.

As he was seeing to his wound, he vaguely heard noise coming from the courtyard. He thought he heard horses, and footsteps, but he dismissed it; the bathhouse was the furthest building from the main house and the courtyard, and he could be just hearing the few household servants taking in some of the horses late.

He finished dressing the scrape, and threw his discarded shirt over his shoulder, toeing on his boots. Making his way around the bathhouse, he blew out the few oil lamps he had lit, leaving one for the attendant who would clean it in the morning.

Exiting the warm room, he breathed deeply of the cool night air, and shut his eyes, tilting his head up. Steam issued from his half clad body, and he centered his thoughts, calming and collecting them.

He stuck his hand in his pocket absently, and jerked his eyes open. Fishing out the hard piece of metal there, he gazed down at it.

The lion on the leather thong stared back at him, and he turned it over, contemplating it and the memories it dredged up. Good ones, terrible ones, and little bits and pieces of things he never thought important until now. Now that they were all he had left of the other man.

His eyes slipped closed again, and he swallowed heavily, forcing down the lump of bile that rose from his gorge. He missed Lancelot so much sometimes he thought he might be better off if he lay down and let life just pass him by. It might be a slightly less painful way to live than the way he was living now – a mechanical man, moving, eating, talking, but only because some higher purpose pulled his strings. He knew this to be true; otherwise, he would have shriveled up and blown away a long time ago.

_Pelagius once told me…the worst death of all…is the death of hope_.

His hand clenched around the pendant, and he swayed briefly, his equilibrium taking flight. He thought he would do well to be a bird – for he felt as if he were making one long straight wingless dive toward the ground.

He sighed; at the same moment, he thought he heard his name breathed along with the slight noise.

No one else would be out this far on the grounds this late at night. He opened his eyes, took one step toward the house, and stopped.

His fingers quivered once, his eyes blinked, and he cocked his head. The apparition stood in front of him, silent, its arms crossed, it's demeanor one of road weariness and extreme leanness.

The clothing was new, but the double blades were not. Neither was the tooled belt that hung around the ghost's waist; Arthur himself had given it to the man, purchased in Londinium on what had turned out to be a very long and uneventful trip.

The ghost smiled then, a quick flash of teeth in the moonlight, and it spoke.

"I see you haven't given up your insane Roman custom for bathing as often as possible. You actually built a bathhouse?"

Arthur felt his knees weaken at the sound of the thing's voice. It was too close. Too much like the one he was sure he would never hear again.

_You fight for a world that will never exist – never! There will always be a battlefield._

_Talk to me, Arthur. Tell me your troubles – if you unburden your mind…perhaps we can actually find something pleasant to speak of._

_Let me see you_, he had whispered, the firelight flickering over his bare skin. _We are torn and bruised, yes, but together, we make one whole man._

"Arthur?" the voice came again, concerned this time. "You're awfully pale – I'm sorry, truly. I was going to send word – but the others, well, we thought you might enjoy a surprise."

Arthur's knees did collapse then, and the pendant tumbled from his fingers as he headed for the ground.

He tensed, waiting for the pain, but was caught up by strong arms around his torso, and suddenly his consciousness snapped to the forefront of his denial, and it was trying to make him come forward with it.

_Is he really…ohmygod_.

"Is that you?" he said quietly, eyes meeting the other man's, his knees touching the ground finally. The other man hunkered down next to him, locking their eyes, his hands twisted together.

"It's me, Arthur," was all he said, and Arthur barked out a harsh laugh. "And here I was thinking I'd finally gone insane and imagined you here," he gritted out, his jaw cracking, his forehead breaking out in a sweat.

"No," Lancelot said softly, and reached out a hand that tremored slightly, his rough fingers finding the heat of Arthur's cheek.

"Oh," was what Arthur said, allowing his eyes to follow the line of Lancelot's hand, tracing it back down his arm, up his neck, locating the pulse, and at last finding the dark brown eyes that stared at him in sorrow and in such deep affection he thought he might crack and break apart.

He brought his own hand up, and covered the one on his face slowly, running his fingers over Lancelot's, checking, making sure, being absolutely positive that he wasn't creating visions out of his loneliness.

"Oh," he breathed again, and Lancelot's other hand went to Arthur's bare cheek, then dropped to his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, chest, bicep. They were both quaking; from fear or desire neither one was certain.

"You're here," Arthur said again, quizzically, blankly. His efforts at making himself believe that what he was seeing was not a ghost, and actually was the figure and form of his friend were draining his logic center – and fast. "You're – what _are_ you doing here?"

Lancelot laughed bitterly. "That's you alright, Arthur. I travel for weeks to see you … at my own peril, mind you, and you ask me what I'm doing here." The younger man tried to roll his eyes, but the shock at seeing Arthur and hurt that Arthur's words brought made him close them instead.

"I – I'm sorry," Arthur replied; his voice dropped away, and he sat back on his heels in the dirt. "My god," he whispered, his hand moving when Lancelot's did. His followed the other man's, however, and ran over Lancelot's jaw, touching the familiar stubble, the arched brows, his high cheekbones.

Lancelot's eyes opened, and Arthur broke all the way in two at the sight of tears swimming in them. "What am I doing here?" Lancelot repeated, and Arthur nodded mutely, not trusting his words.

"I've spent the last eleven months riding…sleeping out of doors, keeping up my skills, drinking, fucking barmaids," a brief snort escaped his lips, a few tears starting to leak down his dusty face, "and missing you so much I thought I would die. I had to come, Arthur. There was no other choice. Not for me."

Arthur smiled, and touched a fingertip to the wetness making tracks in down the other man's cheeks. "I – you don't know what – I can't."

He walked on his knees to Lancelot, the few feet that seperated them gone in an instant. He would have bruises on his shins later, but he didn't care. Trembling arms wrapped themselves around the slender shoulders that were so achingly familiar; hands traced the bird like bones in the other man's back, each knob of spine, each tiny striation of muscle.

Lancelot gasped out a sob at the contact, and his entire being seemed to contract and expand in one second. He felt filled, and yet so empty it burned.

"Arthur," he moaned, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur." He kept whimpering the man's name like he couldn't breathe if he didn't.

Lancelot raised his own arm, and threaded his fingers lightly through the longish (_his hair's grown_) curls at the nape of Arthur's neck. Arthur shuddered, and bit his lip til the familiar rush of copper filled his mouth.

"Thank you," he whispered to the darkness.

To God? No, not anymore. Mithras? Ares? Some nameless heathen diety that was responsible for this – for him being able to have this again?

He wasn't sure. He didn't care. The dark eyes and hair and pale, singing skin were his again, to touch and love and take care of.

He dropped his forehead to rest against Lancelot's neck, trying to calm his suddenly throbbing head.

"I didn't think I was going to make it," Lancelot said quietly. Arthur nodded. He understood. His whole life, he had been waiting for this moment.

He felt broken, and whole. Happy, and sad. Useless, and needed. His skin crawled. He needed to speak with Lancelot – to be able to look in his eyes in the light, and see for himself that this wasn't some figment of his imagination.

"Inside," he breathed against the other man's throat. Lancelot stood, taking on much of Arthur's weight.

The two men walked like drunks through the grounds. The stars and sky shone down on them, lighting the path, fooling them that things were, or could be, the way they had been.

end three.


	4. Four

Four.

Gawain and Galahad yelled out happy greetings to Arthur; they hugged him in turn, and spoke with him for a few minutes, Gawain sparing a few glances between Arthur and Lancelot. The two were obviously beside themselves to see each other, but not everything was right.

Gawain sighed. Nothing had ever been easy between those two. "Galahad," he said, interrupting as Galahad was regailing Arthur with a particularly long and not so interesting story about their latest horse flesh purchase, "I'm dusty and exhausted. Let's let these friends talk and get to bed, yes?"

Galahad made to protest, but at Gawain's hard pinch to his arm, nodded in agreeance and hugged Arthur one more time before Jols led them off to their quarters for the night.

"It is a blessing to see you again," Arthur told Gawain as they left. Gawain smiled sincerely at his old commander, wishing him a pleasant night.

He wouldn't want to be Lancelot or Arthur for all the freedom in the world.

Arthur's aged cook, Julia, had left a flagon of hot wine and mugs with the men, and Arthur stood by the service, fidgeting and staring at the crockery as if it had every answer to any question he could ask. He could feel Lancelot moving around behind him; looking at his books, examing the map on the wall, finally seating himself in Arthur's desk chair.

Arthur poured them both a mug, then handed one to Lancelot, sitting down himself on a leather couch that faced Lancelot, who was sprawled in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm. Arthur tried to hide a smile at the image, but couldn't. It was his friend's nature to a tee.

"Friendship," Lancelot toasted, and held his mug out. Arthur hit his against the other man's, and they both drank deeply, avoiding each other's eyes.

"Arthur," Lancelot said finally. Arthur's heart cracked further to hear his name spoken by _that_ voice again. It was like he had heard Lancelot, had seen him, had touched him yesterday. Arthur blinked, and smiled hesitantly.

"Yes, Lancelot," he responded, and Lancelot smiled back stiffly; he, too, felt a strange sensation he could only ascribe to having been on the road for so long. Perhaps he was just overwrought from exhaustion.

He had told Gawain that Arthur's memory wouldn't let him be, but now that he was here, _right here_, Lancelot suddenly had no idea what to say. He only knew that his body, his internal being, wanted nothing but to crawl into Arthur's lap and stay there forever. He knew if he did that, however, Arthur would not take it the right way. Lancelot knew Arthur; he knew him almost too well. He knew the man would want to talk, would want to discuss things, how Lancelot had fared on the road, what his plans were, what he expected from Arthur.

In truth, Lancelot didn't know what his plans were, or what he expected for the future. He only knew that when he had gotten as close to Rome as he had ever been, something had _made_ him ride south. To Arthur.

He wasn't sure if he could explain it to himself, much less to the other man.

"I – how have you been?" he stuttered out, aware of how silly the question sounded. He asked it anyway; he watched Arthur closely, to see how he would react.

Arthur was taken slightly by surprise at the casualness of the question, but he merely cleared his throat and tried to answer.

"Fair. The house is coming along nicely – I don't suppose you saw the orchard?" Lancelot shook his head, "of course not, but you can see it in the morning. I put in a fountain as well…I don't just build bathhouses," Arthur joked, and trailed off. He felt awkward and stilted – and he absolutely _hated_ it. Lancelot used to be able to almost finish his sentences, could read him better than he could read himself.

And here they were, talking of trivialities as if they hadn't been apart for what they thought would be forever.

Arthur watched as Lancelot drained his mug; the other man seemed to be feeling just fine, which made Arthur slightly angry – Lancelot should be as disturbed by the reunion as he was. He rubbed absently at the new bandage on his arm, and coughed.

Lancelot set his cup down, and raised one eyebrow, looking Arthur over. The man looked – older. Still strong, still broad of shoulder and lean of hip, but there was a little more grey in his hair, and a few more lines around his eyes and full mouth. He was still more beautiful than anything Lancelot had ever seen, and he _felt_ the same, mostly. Lancelot still could feel Arthur pulling at him, however, there was something…perhaps he had found another way to fill himself and his days? Lancelot ached just to think of the possibility. He had to know. He had ridden all this way, not knowing why, or that he was even following Arthur's draw, but when he had gotten as far as Brigantium, he had put the pieces together. And he was damned if he was going to simper like some silly girl and moon about if Arthur didn't love him anymore.

Their parting hadn't been easy. Seeing him again…it was like a lightning bolt had hit Lancelot and scoured him clean. His nerve endings were raw, his skin felt crackly, and his mood was sour. He had to know.

Arthur was staring at him intently; that unnerved Lancelot even more, and he frowned, removing his leg from the chair arm and sitting forward.

"Arthur," he said the man's name again, and it tumbled off his lips as easily as if he had said it every second of his life. "Arthur…I wish I knew what to say to you," he sighed, hand scrubbing his hair and face briefly, "I felt – feel as if I know your every move, your insides and outsides as if they were my own. But I also feel… seeing you here now, in this environment…I don't know you at all. You're just some random Roman man who I could pass on the street and not glance twice at. It's disturbing, to say the least." Lancelot hurt to say those words, but it was the truth, and Arthur had to know. He had to know all of it.

Arthur winced as if bitten, and a little more of Lancelot's gut twisted up. The other man tried to smile, but only half his mouth moved before his expression became blank again.

"I understand," he answerd softly, and gods _damn_ it, Lancelot knew he did. "I still have to convince myself that you're not just some wild dream I've created out of desperation," Arthur said, hands twisting in his lap. Lancelot was across the room without thinking, and threaded his own fingers through the flesh knot Arthur had created, willing his friend's hands to relax. He knelt on the floor, and kept ahold of Arthur's hands.

He blinked; he hadn't even thought to move, and yet here he was in front of Arthur. _Blast_. Some things hadn't changed. He had always been there whenver Arthur guilted himself into a major attack, and he reacted this time just as he always had. He wasn't sure if he was glad of it, or angry at his predictability.

Arthur stared at him as well, his eyes wide and red, but his fingers slowly relaxed, and they stayed locked with Lancelot's. "How did you come here?" Arthur asked quietly.

That was not really an easy question to answer – but Lancelot decided just to tell Arthur how he _felt_, and hoped it would be enough.

"Like I told you before, I was out riding. When I left Britain," he began, his voice uneven; it still hurt to think of his decimated and displaced family, "I rode home. And I was angry; so angry I couldn't wait to get away. I was certain the best thing for _both_ of us was for us to go our separate ways. Being freed, Arthur … it was like a…a giant empty chasm had suddenly been dumped in front of me, and I had been charged to find a way across it. With no help, and no tools. You have to understand," Lancelot said, his eyes still meeting Arthur's, "fifteen years of being told what to do, where to go, hell, where to sleep and shit, will make a man slightly uncomfortable when he's suddenly given his own mind back."

Arthur waited; it had been so long since he and Lancelot had had any kind of civil conversation that he was afraid this one would go awry before it had even begun. Arthur had one question he had to risk asking, however, so he did.

"What about your family?"

Lancelot shrugged, and Arthur could see from the tightness in his shoulders that things had not gone as planned. "Dead. Or married off. I managed to see one brother, who had been a babe when I was conscripted. He barely remembered me," Lancelot laughed bitterly, "and I didn't feel right dumping myself and my woes on he and his new wife. I rode," he continued, "and rode for a few months, exploring what was left of my homeland, never spending more than a few nights in one place. Somehow Gawain and Galahad found me," he laughed again, this time just a laugh, "and there you have it. We've been riding steadily west from Sarmatia, and when we ended up in Brigantium…" he trailed off, then took a deep breath. _He has to know. All of it_.

"Apparently I'm vocal in my sleep," he murmured, his cheeks tinging red. Arthur's fingers tightened on his slightly, and the other man began to rub his thumb on the palm of Lancelot's hand as he spoke.

"You wouldn't let me rest, Arthur," he said, his head dropping forward at last to rest on Arthur's linen clad knee. He shivered slightly at the contact, and Arthur had to swallow past his own emotions, which were threatening to rise up and swallow him whole – big, grinning monsters he thought he had buried.

"The way I left," Lancelot went on, his voice rough and sore, "was not becoming of me. I must apologize to you…it was just…I didn't know what you wanted for your own future. And I did _not_ want to end up tagging along behind you like some kicked dog if you didn't want me there."

Jesu. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at Lancelot's confession, and he kept a tight grip on Lancelot's hands. The other man's head was still bowed, resting slightly on Arthur's knee. Arthur wanted to offer some comfort, some reassurance that he understood; that he didn't blame Lancelot in the least for the way they had parted.

_Was I so cruel that he never quite got my affection…my addiction to him?_

Arthur separated their fingers, and allowed his hand to drift to Lancelot's hair; he threaded the calloused tips through the dark curls he had always loved to touch, sighing lightly. "I wanted nothing _but_ you," he whispered, "and it is I who should apologize to you because you never understood that."

He rubbed the other man's head softly, glad to see Lancelot's shoulders slump a little. He pressed down on one of them with his free hand. "These do not belong next to your ears," he joked quietly.

Lancelot pulled away at last, grasping the fingers that were resting on his head, and pressed the palm to his cheek, tilting his face so he could plant a small, shivery kiss there. He dug in his pocket, and pulled out the token his sister had given him so long ago, the one that Arthur had dropped when Lancelot had appeared as if out of thin air by the bathhouse.

"You kept it," he stated simply, and Arthur nodded. "I had hoped you would retrieve it some day," he admitted, "or if not…I would have something of you to keep." _Thank god you came._

Lancelot stood, pulling Arthur with him. They didn't move, facing each other, taking in the changes, each of the other, mental as well as physical.

Arthur's eyes roved over Lancelot; the corner of the other man's mouth quirked. "I feel as if I am being examined by the medicus," he laughed softly, but Arthur shook his head. "I want to see you – as you deserve," he said, and Lancelot had to bite his lip to keep from throwing himself bodily onto Arthur.

Arthur in turn saw the man he knew, insides, outsides, skin, guts, soul, but he also saw something … different, something new. He wasn't sure if he liked it. He was afraid he had caused it.

Lancelot, on the surface, was pretty much the man he had been back in Britain. Lean, strong frame, broad, sharp shoulders, high arching eyebrows above coal dark eyes that still sparkled. Same beard, same manner of dress – no heavy armor, of course. Arthur noticed shoots of grey in the man's beard and hair at the temples, but what really drew him were the lines that had grooved themselves into Lancelot's face, where before they had come and gone dependant upon the man's mood.

The eyes, while still bright and beautiful, held shadows that Arthur winced at. The skin below them was dark, and his overall tone was paler than he had been in Britain, which was odd, considering how little sun there had been there.

"Arthur – stop looking at me as if I were a lame horse," Lancelot finally spouted, crossing his arms over his chest. He frowned; which was also not an expression Arthur liked seeing on the younger man. He was used to seeing it only before or after a skirmish.

"I'm all right, I swear it," he added, a bit lamely. Lancelot knew he wasn't exactly a feast for the eyes, but to have Arthur staring as if he might catch some sort of disease from him was starting to raise his ire.

"What?" he asked, moving his hands to his hips, cocking one, glaring at Arthur from narrowed eyes. "I know I'm not the specimen I used to be, but I'm not a gargoyle, either. Speak, man."

Arthur's only response was to almost fall back into his chair, his hands going to his face. Lancelot immediately dropped his irked expression, and replaced it with one of genuine concern. He went down to one knee in front of Arthur, and reached out a hand.

"Arthur – what? Please, friend, for the love of pity, what ails you so?"

Arthur's shoulders shook once, twice; his breathing hitched, but he didn't move to answer Lancelot, who, after a moment of panic, realized the other man was sobbing roughly into his own hands.

"Gods," Lancelot breathed, and knelt up so he was in between Arthur's legs, which he pushed apart with his hands so he could be as close as possible to the distraught man.

He never could stand to see Arthur in pain like this; he rarely ever had, so it was always a shock when the older man broke down in front of anyone. As far as he knew, Arthur hadn't ever cried more than once or twice in front of anyone else, except perhaps at funerals of the knights they had lost along the way. Maybe not even then.

Arthur had in the early days some silly idea that showing any kind of emotion, other than those appropriate to command, was a sign of weakness. As he and the other knights had gotten close, that had changed somewhat; dependant upon the situation, Arthur had become comfortable enough with his charges, and they with him, to begin to trust one another with true feeling.

By the end, they had all cried, laughed, pissed, puked, fucked, and generally done anything a man could do in front of one another. So the fact that Arthur now was covering his face was a shock to Lancelot, and it hurt him.

He gently took a few fingers and stuck them through Arthur's clenched digits; tugging, he managed to get the other man to lower his hands. The sight that met his eyes twisted his insides like he had eaten a bad meal.

Arthur's green eyes were bloodshot, his nose was running, and tracks of dried snot and fresh tears decorated his stubbled face. His lower lip was trembling; he was valiantly trying to hold back, but when Lancelot cocked his head and touched his face with one fingertip, he couldn't fake it.

His face crumpled again, and he sobbed in earnest. Lancelot's arms went around him, and the younger man whispered quiet, soothing words into Arthur's ear as he nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck, stroking his hands down Arthur's back repeatedly.

"I – I've been so – stupidly wrong without you," Arthur blurted out, and Lancelot's arms tightened, his lips kissing the face and cheeks that he had missed for so long.

"Shhh, Arthur. You don't have to tell me." _Because I know_.

"But you need to hear it," Arthur said, his breathing still hitching, his face blotchy and hot. "I need to make you believe me – I was, I am, miserable. I fill my days with endless chores and things that mean _nothing_ to me to force myself to forget what could have been, and how in the world I could have been so stupid as to drive you away. I don't…I can't be alone again. I need you with me. I loved you. I loved you, and you left because I was too proud to stop you. I only wanted what _you_ wanted, even though I knew it would kill me for you to leave. God, Lancelot," he finished brokenly, "I love you even more now, knowing that I hurt you like I did."

Lancelot was sucking in air through his nose, his hands clenching on Arthur's back, and he had to swallow back the bitter bile that rose from his gorge. "How stupid we both have been," he whispered back, "I wasted an entire year away from you because of my own damn pride. We are both idiots. So don't worry about who hurt whom," he added, pulling away slightly so he could see Arthur's eyes, "and let's just fix what we shouldn't have broken in the first place."

He petted and soothed Arthur's face as he spoke, willing _calm_ into the other man. Lancelot loved Arthur so much his skin felt as if it had been flayed from his bones by Arthur's words. He alternately burned and was chilled from head to foot; he felt he would die if he didn't kiss the other man, and yet he knew it would crack him open if he did.

Arthur let out a little gasping sob, and leant forward; their noses bumped awkwardly, then Lancelot _knew_ he was dead, because he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything except for Arthur. Arthur's lips, Arthur's hands on his body, Arthur's frantic heartbeat against his own chest.

They fumbled clumsily at each other, fingers bruising, heads slamming together once, but Lancelot didn't care. He cared about being touched and kissed and loved by Arthur, and that's what was happening. It was out of a dream – or a nightmare, he wasn't sure which. _Gods, Arthur. Gods!_

Both of them were in only their breeches, Lancelot squirming desperately on Arthur's lap, when someone beat on the door. Arthur ripped his mouth away from Lancelot's, who couldn't hold back a moan of loss.

"Sir! Sir! Lord Castus, please, open the door!" Arthur's eyes grew wide at the sound of trouble from one of his household, and shouted out, rather hoarsely, "What is it, Brutus?"

"It's the lady, sir! There's been an accident!"

Lancelot watched as Arthur went ghost pale, and moved aside as Arthur stood, striding to the door. He jerked it open, unaware of his statue like smoothness in his current state of undress. Lancelot slumped into the now cooling chair, biting his thumb, his skin prickling against the leather.

"Ligeia?" he said in a strained tone. The servant nodded. "What is it, Brutus? What's happened?"

The servant's lips flapped, and Arthur's hand went to his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Tell. Me." Brutus nodded, and spoke in a rapid fire voice that Lancelot had a hard time hearing.

"Fire. Her farm. They need as much help as they can have." Arthur nodded in turn, whirling about and grabbing up his tunic. "Brutus, gather the other men as fast as possible. Also, wake my guests in their rooms; they can help as well. I'll be there in a moment. Oh!" he shouted after the running man. "Saddle as many horses as you can."

Arthur began to exit the room, then stopped, as if remembering something. He turned around, and crossed to Lancelot, who was also pulling on his shirt. "Lancelot," he said, "I have no right to ask…"

"Oh please, Arthur," Lancelot smirked, standing, "as if there was any way I'd let you be heroic alone."

Arthur threw him a brief smile, and ran from the room, yelling behind him. "Meet me in the yards in five minutes. And bring a blanket you can wet down."

Lancelot followed, albeit a little slower. He continued to chew on his skin as he gathered up his leather vest, strapping on the double blades he never went anywhere without. Finding a blanket in a small room off the kitchen, he made his way to the yards, where men were scrambling about, saddling horses and gathering any buckets that Arthur had in his posession.

He found his own animal, and mounted up. Gawain and Galahad came rushing out, got on their own horses, and trotted up to where Lancelot was sitting on his nervous horse. Gawain raised his eyebrow in silent question. Lancelot just shook his head; he wasn't ready or in any kind of mood to answer queries just yet. He raised a hand, touching his lips, which were swollen and red.

Arthur emerged from the house, tugging on a heavier fabric and leather overcoat, wearing high boots that covered his knees. They would hopefully protect him from any burning matter they had to walk through. He was shouting orders as he walked, and every person in the yards obeyed him instantly. In about half a minute everyone was ready to ride, and Arthur sent them out, leading the column himself.

"Hasn't changed, has he?" Gawain said quietly to Lancelot, then spurred his horse after the others. Lancelot cocked his head, answering Gawain's retreating back.

"You'd be surprised," he whispered, then followed. A thought occurred to him as he was galloping after the men from Arthur's household and his fellow ex-knights.

_Who was Ligeia?_

end four.


	5. Five

Author's note: the sex scene in this chapter has been cut for rules. Please go to http: to read this chapter in it's entirety. BE WARNED. It is hard slash.

Five.

The large thunderheads ringed the lightening sky, and Lancelot sat staring stupidly at the ground. He absently wiped at the back of his neck, which was coated in sweat and soot. All around him, the men Arthur had brought with him and members of the lady Ligeia's household were trying to organize things; the barn that had held her farming supplies and most of her horses was a complete loss.

The lady herself was standing next to Arthur, who was holding a blanket around her drooping shoulders, one arm anchoring the woman to his side. Lancelot knew she was in a bad state; if his livelyhood and home had been taken away from him all in one stroke – wait. He wanted to laugh at the irony, but could only succeed in coughing.

A few drops of rain hit Lancelot's curly head, then began to soak him and everyone around him in earnest. "Nice timing," he muttered to himself. Lightning flashed, the huge angry clouds rolled and rumbled through the air, and people scattered back to the house, the few horses that had survived being taken back to Arthur's barn for the time being.

"Lady," Lancelot heard Arthur say softly. Ligeia kept staring; it was if her legs had grown into the ground. Arthur nudged her again, but she didn't react. Her large brown eyes filled, and her lips trembled as she leaned against Arthur. Lancelot rolled his eyes, felt guilty about it, then went to them.

"Let me, Arthur," he said, and took the shaken woman from the other man. "Lady," he said gently, his fingers going under her chin, raising her face so she was looking at him. "Your daughter needs you to be strong. Let's go inside, yes? I'm sure Lord Castus would want you to be inside now."

"What? Oh, yes. Olivia," Ligeia said in a half halting, broken voice that made Lancelot sigh inwardly. Damn Arthur and his never ending habit of taking care of every wounded thing he could find. Lancelot felt for the woman, he truly did, but at the moment he was more concerned with getting her taken care of so he could figure out exactly what –

"Where did you get those?" he asked, touching the top of her head and the decorative combs there.

"Arthur – Lord Castus gave them to me," she answered automatically. "I'm glad they weren't damaged." Ligeia's hand went to her hair, and frowned at the amount of soot and dirt that came away. "Olivia," she whispered suddenly, her eyes clearing a bit. "Where is my daughter? Gaius!" she shouted, and her steward was there, breathing heavily, but executing a polite bow to his mistress. "Where is Olivia?" Ligeia repeated, shrugging off the blanket and Lancelot's arm. Her back straightened and some of her poise was evident again. Both Lancelot and Arthur relaxed at seeing her regaining some of her composure.

"She's inside madam, and calling for you," the steward answered. The lady nodded, then turned to Arthur. "Make sure Lord Castus has everything he needs, and that his men get as much food and drink that we have to provide." Gaius nodded, and rushed away. The lady walked to Arthur, and took his hands in hers.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said simply, "so this will have to do."

Arthur jumped, then closed his eyes as her lips brushed his briefly. He reopened them when she released his hands.

"I shall be inside. Do not hesitate to come find me should you need anything," she said, then turned to Lancelot. "You are as loyal and heroic as your friend. I give you my heartfelt thanks as well, sir." She curtseyed, then hustled off to the unhurt house, and her frightened child.

Lancelot watched her go, his insides a mish mash of feelings. _Betrayal_ one he didn't want to admit, but it was there, nonetheless. He knew Arthur, knew the man's strengths, understood his draw. But – Arthur hadn't said anything about this woman. And she kissed him?

She was wearing the hair combs Lancelot had given to Arthur many years previous.

Give them to some maid who eventually catches you.

The tall, stately woman would be a good match for Arthur. Granted, Lancelot knew next to nothing about her, but he could tell from the chemistry between them, Arthur cared for her, and she for him. Lancelot couldn't fault either of them; Ligeia didn't seem to be the false type, and Arthur…

How much had Arthur told her? Why had he given her those combs? Lancelot sighed, closing his eyes and wiped a suddenly shaking hand over his face. He could feel Arthur watching him; he knew he should say something, mention his fears and insecurities, but in the wake of the hours of exhausting work they had just done, Lancelot didn't feel he could be polite. He was too worn out, and too hurt to not say something he might regret later.

"I'm going to find Gawain. He may need help clearing out timber," he finally said, turning to Arthur, but not meeting the man's eyes. He knew his own would hold the same thing Arthur's did; hesitation, worry, desire. He didn't have the strength to deal with his own feelings, much less Arthur's. If Lancelot had learned only one thing, it was that Arthur wasn't one to take anything one said with a grain of salt. He would analyze and beat a single word to death in order to understand it. Sometimes that was an endearing quality. Right now, Lancelot wanted to smash Arthur's idealism and sense of right and wrong into the smoky dirt and stomp it. Couldn't some things just be easy?

Not in his life, apparently.

"Yes. That might be a good idea," Arthur answered, suddenly quite interested in the scorch marks on his boots. He fiddled with his hands, then smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "I'll see you all this afternoon. Feel free to make yourselves at home back at my estate," he added, "rooms have been prepared for you."

"Thank you," Lancelot answered stiffly, and strode away toward the decimated barn and hopefully a place to work off his anger and repair his damaged feelings. Arthur watched him go, twisting his hands, berating himself and the luck of fate that seemed to always follow him around.

He wasn't sure that luck actually described what was happening to them. He moved toward the house after Lancelot had rounded the corner and passed out of sight. He knew he was doing the right thing by helping the lady and her daughter; they would have lost a lot more if Arthur and his men hadn't shown up to help. As it was, her livelyhood stood in precarious balance.

The rain pelted him, but he walked with slow, deliberate steps to the main house. The door was flung open, and Olivia barreled out, clutching him about the waist. Her face was white and her eyes were wide, and his chest squeezed at the expression of loss in them.

"Arthur – Lord Castus! I'm so glad you're all right!" she sobbed into his chest. He petted her hair, walking her back up the steps to the dryness of the house and her mother's waiting arms. "Everything's fine, Olivia," he murmured. "You're safe, now." She nodded against him, not wanting to let go. He gently extracated himself from her grip, and transferred the clinging hands to Ligeia. Olivia glanced up at him once more, and he tried to smile reassuringly at her. "Thanks to you," she said, her large watery eyes and downturned mouth ripping at him. "We won't forget it," Ligeia added, beckoning for him to enter. She shut the door with her foot when he stepped into the hall.

Arthur shook his head. "Ladies. I had help – your own household was indespensible. You should be proud of them. And – I am truly sorry for the loss you have suffered." He changed the subject quickly as Olivia's eyes watered more. "But – now is not the time to discuss that. Lady Olivia, you should be in bed," he admonished gently. Ligeia nodded, and spoke to her daughter. "You must rest, sweetheart," she said. "Lord Castus, please wait for me in the study?" Arthur agreed, and watched as the older woman led her child away.

He moved in a fog to the study, right off the main hall. Seating himself, careful to not get dirt or ash on her belongings, Arthur stilled himself, using a technique he had applied before battles or other stressful events for longer than he cared to admit. Breathing softly through his nose, he closed his eyes, turning his focus inward. Sucking air all the way to the bottom of his lungs, his heart rate slowed, and he managed to stop thinking only of himself and his concerns.

Give these to some maid who catches you.

_"Lancelot," he had said when the two of them were alone, the stars overhead making an annoyingly pretty backdrop for a bad day. "How are you feeling – truly?"_

_The other man chuckled sardonically, and raised his injured arm, wincing as he did so. "Not dead. That's a start."_

_Arthur tried to smile, but his face wouldn't obey him. He turned from Lancelot, resting his forearms on the cold stone of the battlements, letting the biting rock and chill seep into his skin. Small punishment for allowing one of his men, his best soldier and friend at that, get injured in a routine skirmish that should have been over in a few moments._

_"I'm – I don't know what to say," Arthur spoke at last. He tilted his head toward the stars, sighing gently in self reproach. He was so good at that. Too bad it couldn't come into play when he was in battle – or trying to back up a friend. He didn't want to fail one too many times. He didn't honestly know what he would do without the younger man who stood subduedly next to him._

_Hrm. That wasn't like Lancelot. Arthur turned his head to the right, and his nose banged into Lancelot's, who was right next to Arthur, his uninjured arm suddenly slung around the older man's shoulders._

_"Arthur," Lancelot murmured, his brown eyes catching the gaze of Arthur's green ones, not letting him retreat or look down, "if you don't stop brooding about something that wasn't in your control, I may have to break your arm as well. Stop. You did the best you could. I'm alive, by Mithras' good graces," he joked. "Actually, because of you," he lowered his voice and his eyes, then looked up again. "Stop berating yourself. I will never blame you for not being able to keep me from harm forever. We are knights. It happens. Just be my friend – that's all I'll ever ask of you. It's more than I've ever been given before."_

_Arthur had swallowed over his burning throat; the bright eyes and smiling countenance in front of him made up his world. "I don't deserve such kindness," he choked out softly. Lancelot's answer was to tighten his grip around Arthur's neck, and press his lips to the other man's cheek, drifing over the stubbled expanse of skin, before sealing their mouths together. He kissed the corners of Arthur's lips, then pulled back so they could see each other._

_"Don't ever say anything like that to me again," he whispered. "Now, let's get out of this accursed night air and in front of a fire, hm?"_

"Arthur?"

The female voice shook him from his memories, and he wiped at his face, smearing the soot and hoping he had managed to hide the wetness he felt there.

"Lady," he said, rising. She waved him back down, and sat across from him on a small padded stool.

"I don't know what to say," she said, and Arthur had to repress a shudder at her words. He pushed the guilt at the thought of Lancelot to the back of his mind, and focused on her.

"You don't need to say anything," he told her. "I would have done the same for any family in distress. It made it more imperative because it was you – please don't feel obligated to treat me any differently," he cut in when she tried to speak, "I did what any honorable person should do. Your own household was indespensible. I only did…" he trailed off at her expression. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "You must be exhausted. Please, for my sake if not your own, get some sleep."

He stood, and moved toward the door to the hall. "Arthur," she said curtly, stopping him in his tracks. "You are very adept at ignoring your own strengths. I owe my life, and the life of my child, to you and your friends. So stop degrading yourself, and accept my thanks and heartfelt gratitude."

Arthur cocked his head. He was so damned easy to read. Always had been. He cursed himself, then placed his hands gently on Ligeia's shoulders. Brushing her forehead with his lips, he turned and made his way to the main door. "My apologies, Lady, but you don't know of what you speak," he said, his voice rigid with the effort to control his roiling emotions. "I shall be back on the morrow; I will be leaving some of my staff here to help you. They will provide any assistance you require. Now, please, go and see to yourself. I will be back in the morning," he repeated, wanting her to understand he wasn't angry at her.

He exited quickly so he wouldn't have to see her face, or explain his change in attitude. Mounting the horse one of her men provided, Arthur spurred the animal, and rode as fast as he could back to his own home, fleeing his confusion, leaving his anger and distress in the dust floating behind him.

They had plenty of time to figure out just what had happened in the morning.

The household was quiet. Gawain and Galahad had cleaned up as fast as possible, then sunk into a deep sleep in the small, cheerful rooms Arthur had provided them. Lancelot lingered in the bathhouse Arthur had built, his breeches covering his aching hips, his bare arms and torso still coated in sweat, soot, and not a few burns. He examined his left forearm, cursed, and coated it with more oil; he hoped the stuff would at least stop any chance of infection and dull some of the pain.

He banged his head once, twice on the stone wall behind him. Leave it to Arthur to embroil them in some drama the moment they saw him again. The first time in a year. Lancelot cursed outloud again, and closed his eyes. Weak rain coated daylight filtered down through the small window in the top of the building, and suddenly, Lancelot was awash in memories, welcome and hated.

I am to be your commander. I am Arthur Castus.

_No man strikes one of my soldiers without my permission, legate. Is that clear?_

_Those Woads won't know what hit them! We are knights! Show them no mercy!_

_I – don't know what I'd be without you, my friend. Stay with me, tonight?_

_Forever, Arthur._

A sighing breath crossed his face, the skin puckering. His eyes snapped open, and Arthur was there, weaving from fatigue, standing white and shaking in his trousers, still coated as Lancelot was in muck.

"Sit," Lancelot ordered, and his fear grew when Arthur obeyed without a word of argument. His green eyes drifted shut, and Lancelot rose, filling a goblet with plain water. He brought it to Arthur, who gulped it down greedily without moving his body or raising his lids. There was a short, angry burn across Arthur's left shoulder, and Lancelot grabbed a cloth, soaking it in the cooling oil that he had used on himself earlier. Arthur batted at him weakly, but stopped when Lancelot shoved his hand away angrily. "Let me," he said, and Arthur sat meekly, letting the other man attend to his injury.

He hissed only once, his face paling even more, and allowed Lancelot to clean and dress the wound with oil. His body relaxed when Lancelot was finished, his stomach muscles moving as his sat back tiredly. Lancelot found he was fascinated weirdly with the shape of them, the marks he remembered too well, and reached out a hand without knowing why.

The skin jumped and trembled under his light fingertips. Lancelot crossed his legs, his bare feet resting on the bench as his hand traced the scars, old and new, that he would never forget. He ran his longest finger around the waistband of Arthur's breeches, tickling the flesh, feeling the familiar body, long denied to him.

"Thank you," Arthur whispered. Lancelot cocked an eyebrow, removing his hand, resting the pair in his lap. "What for?"

"For your help. For not asking questions. For being here."

Lancelot shrugged. "Like I said, Arthur, I would be sorely remiss if I let you get all the heroic, manly credit. Especially to a lady such as that." He watched Arthur's reaction carefully, while ostensibly examining his fingernails.

Arthur opened his eyes finally, red capilaries competing with the green of his irises. "I – have much to tell you," he admited. Lancelot waved a hand, hiding his true feelings behind his traditional bravado. "Nothing to explain," he breezed, "she would make an excellent match for you. I'm glad to see you still had the combs."

Arthur's eyes reflected the world in them to Lancelot normally. When he sought them out now, he saw nothing but flat, green discs. _Gods_.

"Lancelot, about that," he started, but the other man stopped him again. "I gave them to you freely, to do what you wished with," he said. He stood, stretching and popping his back. He did not look at Arthur. "I must retire. It's been a while since I had to do anything that physical," he joked, swinging around to face Arthur. His gaze bored a hole in the wall just over Arthur's right shoulder. Lancelot knew his façade would collapse easily were he to look at the other man.

"I'm glad your lady is alright," he said, moving to the door. "I'll speak with you later, yes?"

Arthur's answer was to move like the lightning they had seen all day. He had Lancelot pinned under his arms against the wall before the other man could even blink.

"Don't. Leave me," Arthur said, in a voice tight with control. Lancelot could feel the rage just below the surface; Arthur's throat was constricted, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, his face flushed, his arm hot against Lancelot's shoulder.

"Please," he added, then dropped his gaze. His arms loosened slightly, his bare feet shuffled against the floor. Lancelot suddenly couldn't get enough breath. Only Arthur could give him what he needed.

"You only have to ask," he answered. "But, Arthur," Lancelot whispered as the older man hesitated, "do you do this for yourself – or your guilt?"

"God damn it, Lancelot," Arthur said, broken and defeated, "come to me now."

They dressed quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace they both felt, and both knew wouldn't last, if the history between them served.

The house was quiet and dark, save for the lights left burning in Arthur's study and rooms. Lancelot hesitated at Arthur's door, not sure of what he wanted. Arthur waited, the way opened, his fate sure before him. He had been bereft for so long – but he wouldn't force Lancelot into anything he didn't want.

_"Stay with me, tonight?"_

"Forever, Arthur."

Lancelot didn't know about forever anymore, but he knew about tonight. He took Arthur's hand, pressed the knuckles to his lips, and slipped inside Arthur's rooms. Arthur closed the door behind him, shutting out responsibility and regret.

If only for tonight.

end five.


	6. Six

Author's note: extra kudos to the person who spots the reference to a different film in this chapter.

Six.

"Nice bruise," came the smart comment, and the currying brush that Lancelot had been using went flying through the air, smacking it's target clean on the skull.

"Bloody fuck – ow, damn it!" Galahad groused, rubbing his head. "Remind me not to make fun of you this early in the morning. What are you doing awake, anyway?"

Lancelot wished he had a clear answer for that; one that made sense to his brain as well as to his heart. He only knew that when he had woken up, alone in Arthur's large bed, he had to get out of there. The stately, beautiful room had felt nothing like Arthur, rather, it had felt like a lodging house that held no warmth at all. Lancelot had thrown on clothing hastily and scooted out before his skin could start to crawl.

Jols had found him snatching breakfast in the pantry, and informed him that Arthur had gone back over to the lady Ligeia's house to check on her, and to investigate what was left of the barn. Lancelot had mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of food, and had retreated to the stables, still the most comfortable place for him. It was the only place on the grounds that felt like Arthur.

Taking out one of the mares that belonged to Arthur, he had begun to curry her, and had just finished when Galahad had come in, making his cute remark. The other man sat pissily on a small stool, and kept rubbing his head, muttering about 'poor sense of humor' and 'get you one day.' Lancelot merely shook his head, and started tacking up the mare.

"Where are you going?" Galahad said, still slightly ticked off. Lancelot picked up the horse's reins, and led her out to the yard, tossing a comment back to the other man.

"Out. Away from here. I'll be back later."

The roads that led away from Arthur's estate and into the city proper were well kept. Lancelot found himself riding aimlessly, following a stream of people that were walking, being carried by chariots, or riding in carts toward the north gate. Arthur's home was a few leagues outside of the city, therefore Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad had not ridden through it on the way from Brigantium. Lancelot found his curiosity peaked, and kept going.

"The famous golden city," he said to himself, and stopped in his tracks just inside the main gate.

Lancelot was no stranger to crowds of people. He had also been to Londinium once, with Arthur and a few of the others back when he was green. But this – this was nothing like any city he'd ever seen, or ever imagined.

Absolute huge hoardes of people poured through the streets, and Lancelot was shouted at a few times before he managed to shut his mouth and move his horse to the side so he wouldn't be run over.

Sun glinted off the many temples and not a few churches; he was surprised to see as many crosses in the air as he did. "Pagans not welcome," he murmured, and spurred his mount.

Making his way along the main thoroughfare, he was yelled at, winked at, shown many many yards of beautiful and hideously ugly wares, propositioned (not just by women), and in general overwhelmed by the largeness of it all.

Arriving at last at the foot of the colleseum, he dismounted, tying his animal to a free hitch, whispered to her he'd be back, and strode determinedly toward the stone monstrosity.

Hearing cheering from within, he stopped, wondering what was going on, when a portly old man with badly dyed hair approached him, oozing oil and false charm from every pore.

"Good day, sir, and how are you finding our fair city?" He sidled up to Lancelot, taking in his dress and whistling at the sight of the double blades on his back.

"Swordsman?" he said, grinning, showing all eight of his remaining teeth. Lancelot rolled his eyes. "How did you guess?" he asked with as much fake enthusiam as possible. He tried to move away from the man, but the salesman followed, determined now that he had found a potential target.

"Interested in the games, sir?" the man said. Lancelot stopped, then turned. "Games?" he asked. The salesman smiled toothily again, and nodded vehemtly, some of his greasy sweat flying to land on Lancelot's cheek. Lancelot grimmaced, and wiped it off.

"Oh yes, sir. Some of the best gladiators in the world fight here. We have all sorts of exhibitions – animal fights, battle reinactments, and first blood matches. Although most people find those boring," he said, pooh poohing the idea. Lancelot wasn't exactly sure what 'first blood' matches were, but he had a vague idea it wasn't something he'd care to see.

"If you hurry, you can just make it to the next match," the man said, throwing a friendly arm over Lancelot's shoulders, then taking it off when his skin met the cold steel of one of Lancelot's short swords. "Maximus Decimus versus Tigris. Both very famous men. The latter is from Gaul – he's very fierce, they say."

"Do they, now?" Lancelot said, his patience wearing thin. "Look, friend, I'm just having a poke around. I don't need to pay to see anyone fight, trust me," he continued, his hands going to his hips, surreptitiously checking his small coin purse. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was still there, then moved one long fingered hand to rest on top of the hilt of the small dagger he wore at his waist.

"Well then, if you're sure," the slimy man said, backing away at the sight of the bearded foreigner fondling his blade, "but be sure and stop in on Verdana street – my sister owns the food stalls there, and she makes the best lamb you'll have this side of Greece."

"I thank you for the tip. Good day to you."

The old man tilted his head to Lancelot, and slipped away through the crowd, hoping to find an easier mark. Nutty foreigners. Man had to be ex-legion for sure.

Lancelot shook his head as the man left; he had absolutely no desire to see any fighting, much less a fight he had to pay for. He walked slowly around the colleseum, the roar of the crowd and the smell of cooking meat making him slightly sick at his stomach. Passing the statue of Colossus, the namesake of the monstrosity he had just circled around, he saw the aforementioned Verdana street, and decided to take a detour.

The road started out as a nicely done wide affair, many shops and homes decorating the sides. He kept walking, enjoying the sun on his face and the smells of Roman life. Perhaps the city wasn't as bad as he had thought. He ought to have of given Arthur a second chance to speak of his home. Smiling wryly, he made his way down the street. Not that Arthur was any more from Rome than he was from Britain. The man didn't have it easy. But then again, he didn't choose to make it easy, either.

As he walked, Lancelot thought on the events of the night before, his hand coming up to rub at his bruised and still slightly swollen lips. If he shut his eyes, Arthur's body ghosted up around him, and he shivered, skin pricking even in the hot day. The man would never release him.

Shaking his head again, this time in self recrimination, Lancelot didn't notice the change of scenery, or the fact that the street had narrowed to a one way lane.

He snapped out of his daydreaming when he heard shouts again. He looked up, and cursed silently.

At the edge of the thining street, the houses widened out again, this time into a circular area that held a small, pathetic park, two or three trees fighting for the same tiny spot of soil.

There was a ring of wood planks, with a few bedraggled, soulless looking women roped together, and their obvious broker was working the crowd. Lancelot spit, clearing his throat, trying to get rid of the thick taste of bile that rose up at the sight of the slave traders.

He could abide some things, but slaving? Not one of them. His own life had been way too close to that for him to be able to stomach it. A snatch of one of Arthur's empassioned speeches on free will suddenly snuck into his mind, and he was rooted to the spot, his dark eyes narrowing at the sights that assailed him.

On another corner, a man was spouting loudly to anyone who would listen. Lancelot thought at first he was yelling gibberish, until he caught a few words that sounded like 'house of God,' 'Jesus,' and 'ultimate sin.'

He was finally able to make his feet move, disgusted by the sights, and ran straight into a youngish girl and a waifishly thin boy. They didn't say anything, merely stared at him as he muttered apologies. The boy clutched a small linen sack, which Lancelot was pretty certain contained all their worldly possessions. The girl turned her head very slowly, and looked back at him as they moved on by.

He swore later that the girls eyes were colorless. Or perhaps it was that he couldn't remember the color, due to the overwhelming sores and marks on her face.

He had seen abject poverty before, but nothing like this. He stumbled over his own feet, swore again, and began a fast trot out of the cul de sac, going in a different direction then he had arrived in.

Moving down a different side road, he looked straight ahead, studiously ignoring the tiny children, the women aged before their time, the whores, both male and female, that called out their prices to him as he passed, and the smells of rot and decay that seemed to waft from everywhere. He barely avoided stepping in an overturned waste bucket, and had to leap over a snarling, bone thin dog that was sure Lancelot was trying to take over it's territory. He also ignored the smear of blood on the mongrel's mouth.

Bursting out of the end of the alley, he turned back onto the main street, and came face to face with the most gaudily bedecked building he'd ever seen. Not two feet from the end of the hideously underprivileged road, stood a church, obviously new, gleaming in the sun.

Lancelot stared, his mouth slightly open, his eyes dazzled by the gold of the crosses that topped its spires.

_Is this the work of your God? Is this how he answers your prayers?_

That tiny little underground prison; every one of the poor landworkers dead. Including women and children.

Lancelot gagged suddenly. He raced around the corner of the church, and promptly brought up the little breakfast he had had. Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, he strode back toward the colleseum, his feet echoing sharply, his head swirling with anger and outrage. He had spent more than a decade fighting for this city, and one day's exposure to it's 'sights' was enough for him.

Finding his neglected horse, he soothed her nose, then mounted, racing through the crowded streets, some people yelling at him as he almost ran them to ground.

He couldn't leave the city fast enough.

Arthur sighed and kicked at the ashy remains of Ligeia's barn. He hadn't found much left, except for melted metal that had obviously been part of horse tack or machinery, and more bones and pieces of horseflesh than he had hoped to find.

"Damn it," he swore, "what happened?"

Gaius, Ligeia's steward and head of household, approached him and the men he had brought with him. They had spent most of the day cleaning up, and searching through the wreckage for anything that could be salvaged. So far, not much luck.

"Gaius," Arthur said, and the man tilted his head. "Anything, Lord Castus?" the steward asked, and winced a little when Arthur pointed to a small pile of debris. "Scrap metal. Bones. Dead horses. Nothing to go on," he said, running a hand through his sweaty, sooty hair. Gaius sighed, but nodded. "I will inform my mistress," he replied.

"You can inform her now," came the lady's voice, and both Arthur and Gaius turned to greet her. She looked a bit pale, and was dressed very simply, but Arthur thought he hadn't ever seen such strength in a person before.

Actually, looking at the lady's hair and her combs, he was reminded he _had_ seen courage like hers before.

"I'm truly sorry, Ligeia," he said, going to her and taking one hand in his. "There's honestly not much left. The three horses we managed to save I'll send back tomorrow with some men," he added, "they're being cared for at my home now."

"I appreciate that, Arthur," she answered, squeezing his hand gently before dropping it. "What have you found here? Anything of use?" She walked slowly to the edge of where the barn had stood, staring at the small pile of detritus Arthur had gathered, frowning down at it.

He followed her, and crossed his arms. "Not really. Not anything usable. Ligeia," he hesitated; she turned to face him. "Is there any reason someone would want to harm you or your home? Anything you can think of?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, none. How could anyone want to do this on purpose?"

"What about Marcus?" Arthur asked softly. "Was there anyone – or any reason someone might want to get back at him, through you?" He hated to bring up the option, but Ligeia's husband hadn't been an angel in his life. There was always the possibility someone would still hold a grudge – and would do something like burn her barn out of spite.

"Oh God," Ligeia whispered, her hand going to her mouth. She looked down at the pile of metal scraps again. "Well – I would hope that wouldn't be the case – but Arthur, I just don't know. I'll have to go over his accounts again," she mused. "That might tell us something."

Smart. Arthur nodded. "Yes, do that. I'm going home to check on some things, then I'll be back to see if you've found anything. We don't want something like this to happen to you again if it can be avoided."

He turned to find his horse, when she spoke. "Arthur – are you positive this wasn't an accident?"

He faced her again. "No. But I'm not ruling out the idea of arson, either. There were no laterns lit, no lightning strikes. What would have caused the _entire_ barn to go up before anyone even smelled smoke?"

She shook her head sadly. "I wish I knew. But I do know one thing," she added, walking to him, "I know I'm a very lucky person to have such a friend as you."

Arthur smiled, but raised a hand. "It's no less…" "Than you would have done for anyone, I know," Ligeia said, finishing his sentence. "Arthur – one day you will realize just how worthy a man you are. Until then, it's up to me and your other friends to remind you."

She squeezed his fingers one more time, then turned back towards the remnants of the barn, and her household staff. "They need to be fed," she said to herself, "and I can see to that. Arthur," she called out to him as he began to leave, "please thank your Sarmatian friends as well," she said. His lips flapped; _how did she…? _"I see it in their eyes," she answered, "they would follow you anywhere. They couldn't be anyone else."

Arthur stood frozen, then merely bowed to her. Finding his horse, he mounted, and rode back toward his own estate, and the problems he didn't want to face.

Lancelot was pacing in the small orchard, kicking a few of the fallen apples, when Arthur finally made his way outside. He was tired, his back was sore, and his eyes were red from going over paperwork from Marcus' household accounts. The man had been meticulous, that was one good thing. The bad thing was that Arthur was sure there had been book cooking going on; he just couldn't quite find it.

"How's your lady?" Lancelot asked rather sharply, seeing Arthur walking toward him. Arthur, being distracted, didn't react to the tone. "She's scared, and confused. But I think I might have come across something in her husband's records," he mused, and sat on an abandoned short ladder that had been left by one of the trees.

"Truly," the other man answered. Lancelot's ire was rapidly growing into full fledged anger. He had felt ill all evening after arriving back from the city; Gawain had tried to get him to talk about the visit, but he had refused. The other knight had backed off, seeing the haunted look in Lancelot's dark eyes.

And now to see Arthur not even noticing his mood? Only caring for the well being of a woman he had only known less than a tenth of the time he had known Lancelot?

He knew he was being petty, but at the moment, he really couldn't care less.

"I saw your city today," Lancelot began, still pacing, the timbre of his voice dangerously low. Arthur looked up from his hands, his attention at last where Lancelot wanted it. "Oh?" he said carefully. "And how did you find it?"

"Well…how to begin," Lancelot said, sarcasm in high evidence. He sat on the ground across from Arthur, his knees bent, his elbows resting on them. "To start with, the gladiatorial games? People actually still pay to see things like that? What a forward means of entertainment," he said, tongue fairly dripping acid. "And what classy citizens they use to hawk the games. Oh, and don't let me forget the slave market! Selling thin, broken women for pennies a body. A bargain to be sure," he said loudly, stroking his chin. Arthur hadn't moved except to lean toward Lancelot, his eyes never wavering from the other man's. "Oh, yes, the best part? The homeless children and animals living in the midst of dumped waste and offal, not two steps from the biggest, richest church I've ever seen! A grand city. Something to be proud of, my friend. I don't understand why you ever left and joined the military; who would want to leave such an advanced place?"

_The breeding ground of arrogant fools?_

Ordered. Advanced. Civilized.

Arthur's head dropped into his hands. He was silent for many minutes; Lancelot began to feel a little niggle of worry creep into his heart, but he pushed it away. He was disgusted and hurt, and he was damned if he would back off now. He never had before.

"Why didn't you wait for me?"

Lancelot's ears perked; he leant forward. Cupping a hand behind his ear, he smiled broadly at Arthur, a baring of teeth that left no question as to his true mood. "I'm sorry, what was that? Why should I have waited for you? So you could show me the cleaned up version of your home? So you could have extra time to spend on a woman who didn't follow you to hell and back for fifteen years? Answer me, Arthur! Would she have shed blood for you? Would your precious church have cared if you had died for this place?"

And there it was. The same argument, the same thing they had always clashed over. God, the church, Rome. Arthur's war with himself over his ideals, and Rome's thoughts on duty.

"God damn it, man," Arthur said, so quietly Lancelot could barely hear him, "don't you _dare_ start that. I will never forget – can never forget what you gave for me. I wear it like a weight around my neck. I will wear it til the day I die. Oh, Lancelot," he continued, his eyes soft, his body the picture of abject misery. Lancelot began to chew on the inside of his cheek worriedly. He might have gone too far this time. But gods! What would it take for Arthur to see reason?

"Arthur," Lancelot answered, finally moving to kneel at the other man's feet. "You are free of your service now. You can do whatever you wish. You're free – just like the rest of us. And yet, here you sit, stuck to your old fashioned ideals. Look at your city, friend. They killed your mentor for merely having the balls to say what he believed in. The church abandoned you in Britain to fight for a cause not your own. You let me leave," and his hands clutched at Arthur's knees, harder than he had wanted, "…you let me leave." He had so many other things to say, but when those four words came out, he trailed off. _You let me leave._

Arthur's hand went to Lancelot's face; his fingers tripped along the high cheekbones and familiar plains like he was touching the rarest of old parchment.

Lancelot stared up, waiting for an answer. Any answer.

Arthur's mind was blank. His famous ability to wear people down with speech had abandoned him. Truthfully, he could never gloss over anything with Lancelot. The man had the uncanny ability to bring out every single piece of crap that Arthur never wanted to deal with in the first place. Arthur wanted so badly to be able to lie to his friend, to tell him whatever he wanted to hear, but he knew if he even opened his mouth, everything he didn't want to admit would pour out.

"Arthur? Don't you have _anything_ to say?" Lancelot whispered. His heart sank into his stomach. Oh, gods. He had really done it this time. He had finally made Arthur so angry that he was going to leave Lancelot alone. Again.

You let me leave.

"Gods," Lancelot breathed, and stumbled back from Arthur on his knees, his hand going to his crimson face where the familiar weight of Arthur's fingers had been.

Had he dreamed it?

"I'm sorry to have bothered you with this," he said, his voice flat. "I should have sent a messenger ahead when we had planned to visit, so you could have known we were coming. I apologize for intruding upon your life."

His back hit one of the apple trees, and he stood, his world tilting, his bowels like water.

You let me leave.

"Get some rest, Arthur," Lancelot finished lifelessly. "We'll be out of your hair soon."

He turned, and made his way stiffly toward the main house.

Arthur felt the vibration of the door shutting, but didn't move.

end six.


	7. Seven

Seven.

Three in the morning, and Arthur hadn't slept yet.

He thought he would be able to distract himself by going over Marcus' ledgers again, but the numbers wouldn't stop swimming. He wiped his streaming eyes, and shut the books with a large trembling sigh.

He wanted to go to Lancelot. So desperately that his body ached with the effort of not moving, but he just couldn't find the right words. His self loathing was so strong he felt he might vomit. He had never deserved the love the other man had shown him; God only knew why Lancelot had felt that way in the first place. Arthur had never quite understood the devotion.

He had merely taken it, joyfully and humbly. That had been the one bright spot in an otherwise dark and trying career. At the end, when Lancelot had left, Arthur had been sure he would never feel another thing without the other man there. His soul had gone with him.

He picked absently at the scratches on his arm from the last time he had scrubbed too hard. The baths would be ready for him; they always were, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go there.

"Bah," he breathed out, and slammed the books back on his desk. Things were different. His life was different. _I apologize for intruding upon your life_.

That clenched it. He stood, throwing a black high necked tunic on over his bare torso and left his rooms, the door slamming behind him.

He stood outside the room he had provided for Lancelot, his hand raised hesitantly. The room was dark and quiet, but he knew the other man was inside. He could feel him, could hear the crackle of the fire lit in the grate.

He bit his lip and cursed, then pushed on the door, praying it was open. The wooden barrier swung open on oiled hinges, and Arthur slipped in. Lancelot was on his side, facing the wall, trying to sleep in the bed that took up most of the room. His dark hair was barely visible under the fur coverings that Arthur had brought back from Britain.

Arthur leant against the door for a moment, not daring to move, just listening to the fire, and watching his closest friend sleep.

"Come in, Arthur," the man's voice came from the bed, and Arthur shut his eyes briefly. He approached the bed, sitting on it awkwardly. He fidgeted with his hands, and Lancelot turned, sitting up under the covers, his face creased from the pillows and his hair in disaray. He proped himself up against the headboard, and Arthur found himself smitten again. His gaze roved over the other man, memorizing everything. His face, normally so calm even when in distress, was grooved by lines now, and he had a few scars on his chest and arms that Arthur couldn't remember him having before.

"I have been thinking," Arthur started, then automatically stopped, waiting for the cutting comment or interruption he knew was coming.

None came, so he continued, dropping his eyes to his fingers, which were busy playing cat's cradle with each other. He forced himself to stop, and to look up again at Lancelot.

"I have been thinking on things, and I have to tell you – seeing you again, like this, out of the blue," he continued, as Lancelot merely listened and wrapped his arms around his raised knees, "was not easy for me. As I know it was not easy for you to come here. I owe a lot to your courage – a weaker man wouldn't have done it."

He sighed, and kept going. _You must do this, Arthur. No lies, now_.

"My life has been particularly … vacant since I left Britain, but I stayed here nonetheless. I couldn't stay where I had been, and I couldn't have followed you men to your homes. It would have been wrong to impose myself upon you like that." He fingered the fur on the bed, remembering the animal he had taken it from. That hunt had been one of the most invigorating and yet tranquil events of his life. First animal kill, first kiss.

Lancelot watched Arthur toy with the fur, and wondered if Arthur remembered the day they had gotten it. And he wondered if Arthur remembered the kiss and the other things that had followed. Lancelot knew he always would, and he shivered slightly. He focused on Arthur, who was quietly forcing himself to talk.

"I have been – living on empty, I guess, since I came home. I met Ligeia the first month after I arrived," he said, and Lancelot decided he didn't want to make Arthur explain that, so he held up his hand. Arthur marched on anyway.

"She pestered me at first; I thought she was just another annoying matron trying to marry me for my title, or money, or out of boredom. Turned out she was nothing like that. She's smart, and funny, and very capable. She's educated, and very kind to me," he continued, and Lancelot thought he would break Arthur's skull in twain if he had to listen to the man go on about his lady. "Arthur," he interrupted finally, "enough. She _seems_ very kind. She will make a good match for you."

His still injured heart shrivled further at saying those words, but Lancelot knew he had to do it. Arthur had spent the last fifteen years sacrificing himself and his happiness for Lancelot and the others; if this is what Arthur wanted, Lancelot could let him go.

In theory, at any rate.

"But that's the thing," Arthur said quietly, looking up, his green eyes intense and wide. He bored a hole into Lancelot's skull; the other man couldn't tear his gaze away if he wanted to.

"I enjoy her company, and yes, I think in some other life we could be happy together," he continued, "but … I don't love her. I couldn't."

_Finish it, fool. Just tell him_.

"You've got my soul in your hand, and I don't want it back unless you're tired of caring for it." Arthur said quietly, allowing himself to clench his hands together at last as Lancelot simply stared at him.

"Arthur … for fuck's sake, man," Lancelot murmured finally. "You have a strange way of showing love."

Arthur laughed bitterly, and scooted a little closer to Lancelot unconsciously. "Believe me, friend, I am well aware of it."

Lancelot took in a deep breath, staring first at the fire, then back at Arthur. He ran a hand through his bed tousled hair, and tugged his knees closer to his body. "Arthur," he started softly, unsure of what he should say. "I'm not tired of your soul. You have mine as well. But…and some god or whomever must have a really horrid sense of humor… no matter the amount of devotion between us - we tend to hurt each other. A lot. And all the time."

His eyes watched Arthur until the other man's face crumpled slightly, and he had to tear his gaze away, staring instead into the jumping flames that reminded him so much of winter in Britain, and many days spent holed up in Arthur's rooms.

"I understand," Arthur answered, and Lancelot had to bite his lip from crying out at the tone in his voice. "Let me finish," he chided softly. "I'm not saying 'forget it, Arthur, I don't want you.' I merely think that, after all this time and the many, _many_ years we spent together, we should think this through. I don't want to be hurt again. And I don't want you to do this out of some sense of duty or obligation."

Arthur shook his head. "Duty has nothing to do with it, Lancelot. It never did. I gave myself willingly to you, which was not something I would offer many. You were the only thing that ever made me feel like I deserved some sort of happiness or life outside our jobs – our obligations." Arthur started at his own words – and had to ignore the blush that rose.

What was it about this man that could turn him into a gushing lovestruck barmaid, willing to admit to anything? He didn't know, and wasn't sure if he truly cared at this point. Being a soldier, a son, a friend had taught him how to hide things in order to not hurt others; being those same things had taught him to value his feelings and actions. Life was short, as he knew all too well. When you had the courage to finally admit something – do it.

"Gods, Arthur," Lancelot sighed, his body straightening, his hands flapping about in frustration like trapped birds, "What do I have to do to make you see the truth? I'm no fool," he said, sliding forward so he was inches from the other man, "I wouldn't've wasted time with someone I didn't think was worth it. There's something about the two of us," he continued, staring into Arthur's face, "something that each one of us has, or possesses, that finishes the other. You said it yourself. _I'm stupidly wrong without you._ We may never understand it, or figure out why, but I'm damned if I'm going to leave here without making you know that. It's your choice, my friend. I. Love you," he accented his words with a sharp fingertip to Arthur's chest, "but I will not be tossed aside like some offal if I'm not wanted. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life chasing after you like a dog after meat."

Oh, my. Was that a smart admission, Lancelot? 

Arthur sighed, a long shaky affair that made him lightheaded.

_I love you. But I'm not your dog_.

"You are wanted," he said simply. "I – there are things about me, about my past, that have been difficult for me to reconcile with. Our break was one of those. And now that I have a chance to fix it – I can't promise it'll be all roses and beauty," Arthur answered, "but if you want me, you have me. I've done nothing but miss you since I left. The hole you left in me isn't quite so angry anymore, now that I've seen you again."

The corner of Lancelot's mouth curled slightly. _Two halves of the same coin. I finally understand that ridiculous saying. And only Arthur could make me admit it._

"Then, Arthur, you have to promise me something. You have to tell me the truth, from now on. I want no secrets, no 'protective' gestures. We aren't in Britain anymore, and you have no reason to guard yourself. We are free men, and we do as we chose. Do you understand that?"

Lancelot's tapered fingers gripped Arthur's knee, as they had earlier. This time, he hoped things would go better. He had to stifle a wild laugh at that thought, and forced a serious expression on his face, which wasn't hard after looking into Arthur's solemn countenance.

"Do you?" he whispered.

_Why do you always talk to God, and not to me?_

_Arthur – this is not Rome's fight. This is not your fight._

_You be my friend now, and do not dissuade me…I now know that all the lives I have taken, all the blood I have shed, has led me to this moment._

_Look at me! Does it all count for nothing?_

Lancelot's skin felt as if it were breaking apart, chink by tiny, crushed chink as he waited for Arthur to say something.

Gods, no, make him answer, make him say something, anything – 

Arthur leant toward him, touching their foreheads together, nodding.

"No secrets. I will never hide anything from you again, I swear it. Please, stay," he finished, his voice tiny. Lancelot imagined he could rend the sound of Arthur's words as if they were as insubstantial as down.

He would also be a rich man if he had a coin for everytime Arthur had told him he wouldn't try to 'protect' him anymore.

At this point, however, Lancelot was too desperate and too far gone to care. He lurched forward, and sealed his lips over Arthur's, the kiss heated and full of want and loneliness and everything Lancelot had felt on the 365 plus days he had been without Arthur.

**_Edited for content per rules._**

Arthur's hand squeezed his, and he raised his eyes, to meet the half lidded gaze directed at him. "We should fight more often," Arthur said softly, a lazy smile breaking the seriousness of his expression. Lancelot rolled his eyes, and kissed the other man's lips chastely.

"No, we shouldn't. It's not fun." He rose off Arthur, wincing a bit at the loss of fullness and at the slight pain. Curling up next to the other man, he allowed Arthur to envelop him in a loose embrace. They were both still panting, still hot. Sweat rolled down Lancelot's spine, and he shivered. Arthur tucked him closer, and rested his cheek on Lancelot's head.

"Yes, but this part is," Arthur smirked, and Lancelot's eyebrows rose. "I'm the sarcastic one, Castus. Don't forget it," he smiled, and traced a tired finger over Arthur's cheekbone.

"Well, I think we've seen that you can take on different roles," Arthur answered, and laughed as Lancelot squirmed.

"You enjoyed it as much as I did, so leave off," Lancelot griped, and bit Arthur's earlobe, where he had been using his mouth to tickle the other man. Arthur raised his hands in acquiesence. "All right, all right. No more fighting."

He rose on one elbow, which forced Lancelot to sit up. Arthur's eyes captured his; he couldn't look away if he had to.

"I don't think we're finished, here," Arthur said quietly, "but I'm willing to continue whenever you wish. Ask, and I shall answer. You have my word on that."

_Oh, Arthur. May the gods prove my past experience wrong_.

Lancelot nodded once, not trusting his voice. _No more lies? No more protection for my 'own good?'_

"I will hold you to it."

Arthur lay back down, tugging Lancelot with him. "Sleep," he said, some of the command tone echoing in his words, "we have things to do in the morning. If you still care to help me, that is."

Lancelot kissed Arthur again, this time lingeringly and with much love. "You could try to get rid of me, but that would prove a waste of time and arms."

Arthur laughed, and clutched Lancelot to him, a little too tight – as if he was afraid the other man would up and disappear into the night.

Morning would come too soon, and with it, the lady Ligeia and her problems. Lancelot's face twisted into a frown, but he shut his eyes obediently. Things were different now.

He hoped.

end seven.

If you would like to read this chapter in it's entirety, it's posted at livejournal. My user name there is sashab. Thanks!


	8. Eight

Eight.

Gawain watched as the rain poured from the sky. "Blast this damn country," he muttered, and Galahad laughed at him as he retrieved his umpteeth cup of hot cider from Arthur's hearth.

The two men stared out the window at the downpour, and Gawain shook his head again at the wonder that was Arthur. The other man was outside, soaked through, helping the staff get the horses and few farm animals he possessed inside the barn. The rain had burst forth, surprising everyone, and Galahad and Gawain had barely made it back from Ligeia's home before the torrent had started.

Gawain thought again on the lady. She was kind, and a lot smarter than the few roman matrons he had come into contact with, and very sure of herself. She would make a good match for anyone. Trouble was, the person she was interested in had interests of his own to deal with.

Arthur had studied Ligeia's husbands accounts for three days straight now, and hadn't come across anything substantial. He had found hints of things, and bits and pieces of entries that weren't exactly by the book, but nothing obvious. It was driving him mad. Gawain shook his head as Arthur ran for the house, all of the animals and householders taken care of for the moment.

The door leading from the yard opened, and Arthur slammed it, with more force than he had meant to. The wind was fearsome, and the day as night. He kicked off his tall boots at the entrance to the kitchen, slipping and sliding on wet bare feet toward them.

"Arthur," Galahad said, "go get dry before you catch your death."

Arthur smiled broadly at the younger man, then made them all jump by sneezing loudly enough to wake the snoozing cat by the fire. She lashed her tail in annoyance, and vacated the room.

"This time, Galahad, I think you are right," Arthur laughed, wiping at his nose, and tugged his wet tunic over his head, letting it and his leather overjacket land in a sodden plop on the floor. He snatched up an abandoned towel, and wiped it over his skin, then scrubbed his hair.

"It never rains like this here," he commmented, taking the chair vacated by the cat, "you must have brought it with you."

"Oh yes," Gawain replied, "we missed the rains of Britain so much. In fact, where's your snow? That could only complete the picture." He took a sip of his drink, then got up and poured another, handing it to Arthur, who took the hot mug gratefully.

"One more thing I don't miss," Arthur said quietly. They all clammed up, watched the weather, and drank their cider.

"What a load of fun you bunch are," Lancelot's voice interrupted their reverie, "a nice little domestic vision we have here."

Galahad sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well, there goes our quiet evening of contemplation. Always the life of the party, Lancelot? Can't let bygones be bygones?"

"Never," Lancelot answered, kicking Galahad's chair and pouring himself his own drink. He sat on the brick that surrounded the hearth, smiled at Arthur, and half drained his mug. " 'twould be way too predictable if I did."

"How did your visit go?" Arthur asked Gawain. The blond thought, then answered. "Nothing out of the ordinary. We questioned most of the men and families who had agreements with Marcus – the living ones, at any rate, and they truly do seem on the up and up. A few we couldn't get a hold of," he consulted a small sheet of vellum that he pulled from his pocket, "but we'll be going to the homes of those two tomorrow. If this rain lets up."

Arthur drained his cup, and set it down on the brick at his feet, which were beginning to prune. "I don't know how I could have gotten all this done without you all," he said, one corner of his mouth curling. "You must know how grateful I am. Please don't doubt that."

"What else would we be doing, Arthur? Riding willy nilly, spending excess money on bad women and worse horseflesh?" Lancelot laughed, finishing his drink as well. He eyed Galahad. "And perhaps not always in that order."

"One day you'll stop baiting him, Lancelot," Arthur answered, crossing his arms over his torso, the skin pink from his scrubbing with the towel. The fire was beginning to have an effect on him, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

"True, Arthur," Lancelot said, "but by then I will have run out of insults. And that will be the day I find the last grey hair in my beard."

Galahad stood, moving to the hall, cuffing Lancelot on the ear, a wee tad harder than he had meant to. "Gods forbid," he said, "because on that day you'll be dead."

Gawain sighed sufferingly, and stood as well. "Gentlemen," he said by way of exiting. "We'll see you for dinner later."

Arthur nodded sleepily, and the two men took their leave.

Lancelot knocked his knee against Arthur's feet, which were next to him, resting by the fire. "You need a break," he said quietly, "you're not looking so good." He raised a hand, and layed it on Arthur's ankle, kneading the flesh gently.

"I'm fine, truly," he answered, punctuating the statement with another giant sneeze. He smiled sheepishly, and wiped his nose again.

"You need to get dry," Lancelot ordered. "Rooms. Come on." He stood, and dragged on Arthur's hand until the other man rose.

Arthur followed Lancelot down the hall to his suite, stumbling groggily over the threshold, his lack of rest beginning to catch up with him.

"Here," Lancelot said, and tossed Arthur a pair of linen pants, "you're soaked. I'm going to build up the fire." He crouched down by the small brazier, loading it up with wood and small scrap pieces. Some oil and fire from a torch later, and he had the thing blazing cheerfully in its corner.

Arthur was curled dutifully in his bed, wet pants tossed over a chair, eyes closed and covers up to his neck.

"Hellfire," Lancelot said, adopting a curse he had heard Arthur use before, a smirk crossing his features, "I only had to tell you to get in bed once. You're learning, my friend." He kicked off his own boots, and crossed to the door, shutting it so Arthur would have some semblance of calm.

"No, Lancelot, I'm just tired," Arthur answered, smiling without opening his eyes, "and I know better than to try and argue with you without all my faculties intact."

The other man laughed quietly, the sound echoing through the room. Arthur cracked one eye open, finding Lancelot staring at the ledger books sitting on his desk. "Find anything?" he asked muzzily.

"No, but I also don't have the head for figures like you do," Lancelot answered, "however, there's no harm in me looking. Go to sleep, Arthur," he commanded, putting down the books and moving to the edge of the big bed, "I'll be here should you need anything."

Or should you need just me.

"I'm fine," Arthur insisted, his face screwing itself up comically as he let loose with another blast from his nose. "Fucking rain."

That made Lancelot really laugh, and he handed Arthur a handkerchief from the desk. "Wipe it off before it runs everywhere. Disgusting."

"That coming from a man who's stitched my wounds and seen me vomit is quite amusing," Arthur said through the cloth on his face. He took it away, balling it into one fist. "Better keep this," he murmured. "I am not getting sick."

"Of course not, Arthur," Lancelot assured, nodding. "It's not as if you spent hours outdoors working, then got soaked to the bone. Not sick at all."

"Shut it," Arthur answered pleasantly, and closed his eyes.

Lancelot brushed one hand over the other man's brow softly, feeling his temperature, then cupped his cheek quickly, one thumb tracing Arthur's jaw.

"Sleep."

He moved to the desk, sat, and watched as Arthur's breathing changed as he dropped off.

A small smile curled the edge of his mouth, then he switched his attention to the ledger books in front of him.

He wasn't sure if he could find anything – and it wasn't that he wasn't smart. He just couldn't find the time or enough interest to do anything much with numbers.

He sighed, and opened the books, the popping of the fire and Arthur's soft snoring making for a pleasant setting.

A crack of thunder made Lancelot jerk awake, his forehead sore from having fallen asleep on top of the ledger books.

Arthur was still sleeping, and Lancelot crept out of the room, determined that Arthur should rest as much as possible. The man would work himself into an early grave if he weren't careful.

Picking up a tray of thick stew, bread and ale from the kitchen, he passed Gawain in the hallway, pointed with his foot toward Arthur's rooms, and explained, "I'm not waking him." Gawain nodded, and went on his way. He and Galahad had a busy morning planned, and he wasn't going to waste free time arguing with Lancelot about dinner. Arthur did need the sleep.

Lancelot in the meantime reentered Arthur's rooms, shut the door with his arse, and placed the tray on Arthur's desk.

"You let me sleep too long," Arthur accused tiredly, and sat up, running a hand through his hair. Lancelot snorted.

"I would think it might take you a few years of sleep to feel comfortable again," he answered, and took his own food off the tray. "How do you feel?"

He settled in Arthur's chair, kicking his feet up on the desk, and began to eat, still watching as Arthur got up slowly and took the second chair.

"Creaky, but better," he answered, taking the other bowl of stew. "Have you spoken with Gawain or Galahad?"

"Yes," Lancelot said, "I told Gawain I wasn't waking you. He was all right with that."

"Lancelot," Arthur sighed, "one day you will realize you are not my nursemaid."

"Arthur," Lancelot echoed, smirking, "one day you'll actually find you don't need one. If you'd stop acting like an idiot and take care of yourself, I wouldn't feel as if I needed to watch out for you."

"Hmph. That's your problem, not mine." Arthur swallowed his stew, and frowned at the other man. Lancelot merely smiled angelically and ate, his eyes dropping back to the ledger books which remained open on Arthur's desk.

"Did you look through those?" Arthur asked. Lancelot nodded, talking out of the corner of his mouth whilst he ate.

"Um hm. Didn't notice anything too strange – but like I said, I don't have the patience for numbers like you do. I did see one name come up more than any others…ah, Falco?"

Arthur shrugged, and continued eating, chewing slowly and thinking. "Yes. I saw that as well. That's actually one of the families Gawain and Galahad are going to see in the morning. Father apparently loaned Marcus a good bit of funds to get their farm off the ground."

"Sounds suspicious enough for me," Lancelot answered noncomittally, and slammed the books shut. "No more of this tonight. You're still not looking all that well."

"Yes, mother," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "But I do need to visit Ligeia's house tomorrow – I haven't been there in a day or so and they need help finishing the temporary barn," he mused, setting down his empty bowl of stew. He flashed suddenly on the lady in question, and her new hair combs, courtesy indirectly of Lancelot through him. His lower lip slipped between his teeth, and he scrubbed nervously at his stubbled face.

"Arthur," Lancelot said gently, "somehow I get the feeling you think I might be put out by her presence in your life."

"What? Oh, well, I mean," Arthur stuttered, then stopped. "Jesu," he sighed. "I didn't expect to see you again. It's made things quite confusing. For you as well, I'm sure." He sighed again, and rubbed at his temples. God knew he hadn't been meaning to make the lady think he cared for her…but he did. He did care for her well being, and her daughters', and she had been kind and true when all the others that had flocked around him had convinced him even more that Rome was not what it could, or should have been.

That thought made him sad even now. Then he opened his eyes, and saw the man sitting across from him, and his gut twisted like rope. _Father, will I never understand the depth of loyalty?_

Arthur and God hadn't had any kind of a relationship for a while – but he found himself sometimes reverting to speaking to him in times of stress and uncertainty. He thought it odd that he would still rely on the one thing that had betrayed him the most. Perhaps habit…? He didn't know. He wasn't sure if it really mattered, either.

"There you go again, brooding," Lancelot added, removing his feet from Arthur's desk, sitting up so he could see the other man. "Arthur, I'll admit I wasn't pleased to find you had a … friend like that. But – I know you. And I know you can't help but be the person you are, which includes taking care of husbandless women and helpless girls. It's an annoyingly endearing habit," he laughed, if a bit bitterly. "And seeing you again, yes, it's confusing. But like I told you, I made the choice to come to you. It was for me. I had to know – I wasn't living any kind of life without knowing."

Arthur rose, and padded with bare feet to the foot of the chair where Lancelot was hunched. He kneeled down, squatting on his haunches next to the other man. Taking one of Lancelot's hands, he turned it over, examining the rough, calloused surface.

"You told me once, I did an awful lot of things with these," Arthur mused, twining their fingers together, "but they weren't enough to hold up the whole world. Not without help."

He brought Lancelot's palm to his lips, and brushed them across the surface gently. "I have help. I have you. I always want to have you," he said softly. "I don't want there to be doubt between us anymore."

Lancelot blew out a breath, and clutched at the fingers wound around his. "Then don't give me cause to doubt," he answered just as quietly. "I would have followed you anywhere, despite your strange sense of duty and 'rightness.' There was something there, Arthur, not just a foreign commander being kind to his knights," Lancelot's eyes narrowed at the memory, "but something about _you _in particular that I couldn't stay away from."

He shook his head slowly. "There's something to be said for basic attraction, but that's not all. I don't think I could pin it down if I had to. I only know that I need to be with you. My place is at your side, be it defending you, fighting with you, or loving you. It's not right any other way."

He stood, and let go of Arthur's hand, who stayed kneeling, and watched Lancelot's deliberate movements.

"You spent so much energy and time 'protecting' us – protecting me – and you didn't listen to me when I told you I didn't want that. It was a barrier between us, and I didn't want barriers. I know getting close isn't easy for any person," he walked the length of Arthur's wall, examining the tapestry and maps of Rome and Britain layed out there, "but Arthur, when something like _this _comes along, for the love of sanity, you must act on it. Treat it like the gift it is. No more barriers. No more secrets. If you wish me here, then I'll be here – but it has to be on those terms."

Lancelot turned to face the other man and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable and frightening. "Tell me what you wish."

Arthur ached at Lancelot's words, even though their truth echoed through him. "I told you," he replied, moving to stand, mere inches from the other man, "I told you I wouldn't hide anything from you. No secrets. I meant it."

I spent over ten years hiding things from him, in order not to hurt him. Can I be honest now?

Lancelot's hand went up, and cupped the cheek in front of him. "If you do, Arthur, and I'm not one for ultimatums," he said, "if you do, I can guarantee you won't like the result."

Arthur raised his own hand, and placed it over Lancelot's, holding it's warmth against his face. He tried to think of a response that would _make _Lancelot believe him.

He couldn't.

Things would have to change. He would have to change. If he wanted this.

Oh, did he want.

He dropped his hand and pulled Lancelot flush to him, his face buried in the other man's neck and hair.

He didn't say a word, just held him, and prayed for forgiveness and the patience to do what he must.

And kept on praying, even when he realized what he was doing.

The rain let up slightly the next morning as Gawain and Galahad rode out, but they were so used to it, they didn't mind as much as it seemed from Galahad's complaining.

Arthur and Lancelot followed, breaking off east towards Ligeia's home. They had agreed to meet back that evening to discuss events, and see what the others had come up with, if anything.

"Lord Castus," Olivia shouted in greeting when they pulled up in the yard, breathless from their ride, "have you come about the barn?"

Arthur smiled at the young woman, and dismounted, handing his reins to Gaius, who took his and Lancelot's animals around the back of the house.

"We've come to help, if we can," he answered, then stopped at the look on her face. "What is it, Olivia?"

The girl toed the ground, hands behind her back. "Lucius Falco is here, speaking with mother," she said quietly. "I heard them – speaking about father – and the new barn."

It was then that Arthur noticed that no men were in the yard, and the new barn stood unworked on, skeleton rising against the dark sky. He cursed silently, then turned toward the house.

Lancelot raised his eyes to the heavens once, then followed.

"Gods, Falco! Have you no shame?"

The words came like a blow down the long hall, and Lancelot twisted to look at Arthur, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Arthur's face contracted, and he sped up, moving like a hare toward the sound.

They reached the room where the noise came from, Arthur skidding to a halt in front of it. He raised his hand to knock, when a smack and a cry made him ignore convention.

He burst into the room, followed by Lancelot, to find Ligeia holding a hand to her face, and a tall, older roman standing over her, his breathing quick and labored.

"Arthur!" Ligeia squeaked, shocked to see him. She dropped her hand, and moved toward him, shoving away from the man Lancelot assumed to be Falco.

Arthur's knuckles were white where he gripped Excalibur, and Lancelot had already drawn one of his short Spanish blades from his spine sheath. "What – are you alright?" Arthur asked the lady, moving one hand from his sword to her shoulder. "What's going on?"

"It's not your concern, sir," the roman man said, standing erect and striding forward, "I had business with the lady. We are finished."

"Yes, you are," Arthur said, stepping up to meet the man face to face. Falco's trimmed eyebrows arched over cool grey eyes, and a small sneer decorated his lips briefly. "You must be Castus. I've heard you mentioned in the senate."

"I am," Arthur affirmed, "and you are Falco. And I need to speak with you."

Ligeia was next to Arthur suddenly, hand on his arm. "Don't. Let it go, Arthur."

Arthur didn't look at her, but at a slight motion from his hand, Lancelot was next to him, hilt gripped in relaxed fingers, smile on his face.

"Lancelot," Arthur said calmly, "would you be so kind as to escort the lady out of here and to the barn? I'll be right there."

"Of course, Arthur," Lancelot answered, and made to take Ligeia's hand.

"Stop."

Lancelot's free hand froze at the lady's tone, and he held it there, unsure of what to do. Arthur looked at her finally, turning to face her completely. "Ligeia," he said quietly, "let me help you, please."

"No, Arthur," she said firmly. "Falco, leave us," she told the roman, "I'll speak with you later."

"Til later, then," Falco answered, and executed a smarmy bow, leaving a strong wiff of too much scent in his wake.

"What – was that?" Arthur asked as he relaxed his grip on Excalibur. Lancelot lowered his own sword and his hand.

The lady faced Arthur, her bearing regal despite the red palm print on her face. "Arthur. Please, be a friend, and let it go because I ask you to. I cannot explain. You don't need to investigate the fire any further. Falco has assured me he has taken care of the culprits."

"What?" Arthur said again, sounding like a parrott. Lancelot's face was drawn, not quite sure of what was going on. He knew Arthur didn't like it, though. "What happened? Why on earth would you let any man hit you? On those grounds alone I should kill him!"

Lancelot groaned inwardly. He should have known Arthur wouldn't be able to keep his inner savior hidden for too long. "Arthur, leave it," he murmured. "Do as the lady wishes."

"You cannot be serious, Ligeia," Arthur kept on, ignoring Lancelot. "Who is that man that he can treat you like a slave…and you expect me to stand aside? What about Olivia? Do you want her to see her mother treated like offal?"

Lancelot cringed. _Too far, my friend. _But Lancelot also knew that once Arthur got something in his mind, he wouldn't let it drop, no matter how painful or wrong it was for him and the other person.

"Lord Castus," Ligeia said coldly, straightening her body, wrapping her arms over her torso, "You will respect my wishes, and let it go. I appreciate all that you have done for me, truly," she softened a bit; Lancelot could hear the reluctance creep into her tone. He knew only too well how easy it was to do that when it came to Arthur. "but please, for Olivia's sake, no more."

Arthur's body stiffened, and he bowed awkwardly. "Very well, lady," he answered formally. "If you don't require anything of us, then we shall take our leave."

She nodded. "I think that would be wise."

Arthur turned on his bootheel, and whirled out of the room in a swirl of anger and confusion. Lancelot turned to face the woman, who was staring after Arthur like she wanted to say something, or follow him.

Lancelot smiled at her, and took her hand, brushing his lips across the back of it briefly. "Don't worry about him. I'll make sure he doesn't hurt anyone – or himself."

Ligeia finally focused on Lancelot, and nodded her head to him. "I thank you, sir. You are obviously a good friend." One hand went tentatively to her hair, and the pearl decorated combs there. Lancelot's gut tightened, and he resheathed his sword, the hilt sticking up to match its mate.

"You must tell me about your home one day," Ligeia said softly, hand dropping from her hair to the mark on her face, rubbing it absently. "I would know about where these came from."

Lancelot bowed to her, and followed the way Arthur had gone, surprise and hurt making him unable to speak.

Damn it to hell. How did she know?And why did she have to be kind? 

Night came rapidly. Lancelot stood outside at the back of Arthur's home, and watched as his friend chopped lumber like he was preparing for winter with five hundred men. Steam from Lancelot's wine drifted in the cool air, and he sipped as he watched Arthur work until the moon had risen halfway into the sky.

Gawain and Galahad had returned shortly before dusk, and Gawain had spoken for a few minutes with Arthur before returning to the house, ostensibly to hunt down supper and Galahad. Lancelot hadn't approached Arthur, and soon afterwards, Arthur had begun his maniacal chopping.

Lancelot drained his goblet, put it down on the steps, and made his way to Arthur, avoiding the flying bits of wood chips, sitting on a spare stump.

"Don't start," Arthur said through huffing breaths, his torso shining with sweat in the moonlight. Lancelot smiled slightly, shrugging his shoulders. "I didn't say a word, Arthur. I merely wondered if you were going to start building the practice arena tonight, or wait til light."

"What practice…" Arthur trailed off, lowering the big axe he had been using. He looked around, noticing for the first time the amount of wood surrounding him. He wasn't sure whether to laugh, or cry at the ridiculousness of it.

"I am now ready for winter," he commented dryly at last, dropping the axe with a dull _tang_ and sitting beside Lancelot on the large stump. Both men gazed out into the darkness, the breeze wafting, the smell of Arthur's apple trees reaching them.

"It's Falco?" Lancelot said quietly. Arthur nodded. "I think so. Gawain discovered as much – the family's too secretive about their involvement with Ligeia's husband – they didn't want to talk about him, or the fire. Gawain and Galahad ran into Falco on his way back from her house," his tone darkened, "and stopped him to speak. He didn't give any details, really, but did mention the fact that had Marcus been alive still, the fire would have been the least of his worries."

Lancelot grimaced, then stood, reaching out a hand to Arthur. The other man hesitated, then took it, rising as well.

"Oh, my friend," Lancelot said, shaking his head, "you are caring to a fault."

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, then made a surprised mmphf sound when Lancelot stopped his protests with his lips. Arthur's eyes gradually slid closed, one arm twining around Lancelot's neck, his fingers threading in the other man's hair.

Lancelot's hand positioned itself at the base of Arthur's sweaty spine, the other hand resting on Arthur's cheek, lightly stroking the skin over his jaw.

He kissed him softly, nipping slowly, sucking on Arthur's lips, then tongue when he was allowed entrance. He breathed only Arthur, tasted only Arthur, wanted nothing but Arthur.

He pulled away at last, dizzy and muddled. "Well, that worked," he laughed muzzily, "although a bit too well."

Arthur didn't remove his arm from Lancelot's shoulders as they walked back toward the house.

They didn't say anything – but both knew what the other was thinking.

Arthur knew Lancelot only meant well by his actions, and loved the other man more for caring enough to want to distract Arthur.

Lancelot knew Arthur loved him, but wouldn't be swayed from doing what he thought was right the second he could.

Arthur's bed was warm from the fire lit by Jols in the brazier, and Lancelot didn't leave the security of Arthur's side the rest of the night.

end eight.


	9. Nine

Nine.

Arthur lay on his side, his eyes refusing to close as Lancelot snored next to him. Early light had begun to seep through the windows, and he hadn't slept a wink the entire night. Or not a full sleep at any rate. Every time he had managed to doze off, dreams of Ligeia and Lancelot mixed in his head – sometimes they got along with one another, other times they were snarling at each other.

One dream featured Lancelot ripping the combs from the lady's head and cutting his own wrists with their sharp edges.

His skin prickled with unease and he thought back again to the tall white haired man he had found hitting Ligeia. Lucius Falco. His name had been peppered all over Marcus' ledgers, from money lending to supply providing. The man had even sent over a casket of eggs that had been recorded.

What was it about him? Why was every single thing the man had done or given the family listed? Arthur pondered it a few more moments, then sighed in frustration. The answer was there. He just couldn't see it. None of the other things given to Marcus were listed in such detail. Marcus obviously had wanted to remember everything that Falco had given him or loaned him. Why?

Did Marcus have something on Falco?

Hrm. That was a notion to think on. He promised himself he would visit the Falco estate himself that day, and turned over to find Lancelot staring at him, eyes half lidded, expression one of annoyance.

"Did you sleep at all?" he said, rubbing one eye with a curled up hand, "or did you twist and brood all night?"

Arthur made a little hmming sound, and tried a smile. "Um, yes?"

"Which, Arthur?" Lancelot asked, a yawn contorting his features. "You will get sick if you're not resting."

"For god's sake, Lancelot, leave off," Arthur replied finally, his inner self ready to punch and kiss the other man at the same time. "You have a truly strange knack of making me angry and touched at the same time. It's highly abrasive."

Lancelot put on his best innocent look, eyes wide and lip stuck out. "I'm not sure what you're referring to," he said, all eyelashes and dark curls, "but that's hurtful, Arthur."

Arthur groaned, and rolled away from the other man, laughing softly. "You wouldn't have me any other way and you know it," he joked, sitting up and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Lancelot snorted, and sat up as well, scooting up behind Arthur, his lean arms snaking around Arthur's waist. He rested his forehead on Arthur's shoulder, breathing slowly, then began to trail light lips over the other man's scapula, up the muscle that attached neck and shoulder, finishing on his jawline, which he licked gently.

"I would have you content," he murmured into Arthur's ear, nipping at the lobe softly. "I would have you happy. I would have the grooves between your eyes gone. I would have the grey in your hair be from age and not from worry."

Arthur shivered at the touch, and leant back, tilted his head and placed his hands over the ones resting on his belly.

"What grey hair?" he asked.

The laugh that came out of Lancelot shook them both, and Arthur squeezed the long fingers of the other man, threading his between them.

"I've thought of something," he said after a few moments of no sound but lips meeting, his breath coming a tad harshly. Lancelot sighed, then unwrapped his arms from Arthur's chest.

"Yes? I'm sure you're aching to tell me," he groused, moving to pull on his trousers, then flopped back onto the bed. He crossed his arms behind his head, and eyed Arthur expectantly. "…and?"

Arthur flapped a hand at him, then rose off the bed, dressing and talking at the same time. "Those ledger books contain a lot of information," he said, his voice muffled as he pulled his tunic over his head, "but no more information than a normal household contains. Except for one name."

"Falco," Lancelot interjected, and Arthur's head appeared from his collar, his hair sticking up in crazy whorls. "Yes," he agreed, tugging on his leather pants. Lancelot groaned inwardly; the trousers meant that Arthur was preparing to ride out. "What reason would you think Marcus would have to log every single thing that Falco ever did for him? I found entries listing one bottle of wine, or a basket of eggs. I find that … intriguing. And it says one thing to me."

"And that is?" Lancelot asked, not liking where the conversation was going. Arthur strode to his wardrobe and opened the thing, pulling out leather over tunic and riding gloves.

"Why would you keep track of gifts? Unless they were bribes of some kind?"

"You think Marcus had something on Falco?" Lancelot queried, sitting up again. He stood, and found his own tunic. As he dressed, Arthur frowned, not wanting to drag the other man on a wild goose chase if he could help it.

"I'm thinking yes, perhaps. And he kept a record of all of it so he could make sure Falco never forgot. It must have been something big for him to bother with doing it for, oh, fifteen years or so," Arthur finished, flipping back through the large books. "That's a long time for bribes. Or gifts."

He toed on his boots, and gathered up the books, opening his door. "Either way, I'm going to see if I can't get some answers out of him." He stepped out of his rooms, waiting until Lancelot followed before shutting the door.

"You don't have to," he started, then shut his mouth when Lancelot pressed his lips hard to Arthur's briefly. "Don't even start," Lancelot echoed Arthur's comment of the night before.

Arthur merely stared after Lancelot, who was already walking towards the kitchen. He shook his head, then trailed after the other man.

They ate quickly, Arthur telling Jols their plan so he could inform Gawain and Galahad what they were doing, then exited the house, the sun finally rising.

"Mithras knows only you could get me out of bed this early, Arthur," Lancelot commented as they readied their horses. "Especially without an order." He jumped in with more as Arthur made to interject. "And don't go getting all guilt ridden on me. I'm here because I want to be here. I'm by your side, where I'm supposed to be," he finished, leading his horse out to the yard, then mounted up. "No protecting. No secrets. I'm a free man. I choose my own fate." His dark eyes met Arthur's emerald ones, daring the other man to deny him.

Arthur just placed a hand on Lancelot's knee, then moved to his own mount. "Let's go get answers, then," he said, sliding the ledger books into his saddlebags. He hoped Lancelot hadn't noticed his cracking voice, or that he had to swallow hard a few times over his swollen throat.

The Falco homestead was sprawling. Arthur and Lancelot rode through a large olive tree orchard and a cattle pen, from which the sound of cows being milked could be heard. People were milling about, servants doing their morning duties when the two men reined up in the main yard.

A young man bustled toward them, and took their reins as they dismounted. "Lord Castus," he said, bowing slightly as he handed their horses off to another man, who lead them off after Arthur had taken what he needed from his saddlebags. "I'm Graccus, the Falco's head of household. I was told to expect you."

"Were you now?" Lancelot sniped, but shut up when Arthur shot a glare his way. "Then I take it the family is ready to see us?" Arthur asked.

Graccus smiled, but Arthur saw it didn't reach his ice blue eyes. "Follow me, please."

The servant swirled away toward the house, and the two men followed, Arthur glancing at Lancelot once before saying under his breath, "I'm talking. You play nice."

"Aye, commander," Lancelot answered, and Arthur resisted the urge to kick him as they entered the home.

The tall roman man they had seen at Ligeia's the previous day was waiting in the foyer, dressed in regal senate attire, his purple sash of rank standing out starkly against the whiteness of his toga. Arthur felt suddenly underdressed in his leather riding gear and simple boots, but he ignored it. He knew the man had appeared this way on purpose to intimidate. Arthur refused to allow it to affect his mood or judgement.

"Senator Falco," he said by way of greeting. The man nodded tightly, then gestured for them to follow him. They made their way into the back of the house, and Falco shut the door behind them as they settled themselves in what appeared to be the study.

"Castus," he said with no preamble, "I know our meeting yesterday was less than – ideal." Lancelot's hand on his arm restrained Arthur from making a nasty comment, and he ground his teeth together in order to be polite. "Yes, well, as you said, it was your business. Nevertheless, I don't like seeing any helpless person struck. But be that as it may," he went on before Falco could say something he'd regret, "I have been studying Marcus Orona's ledger books," he patted them, "and your name has popped up very frequently. It's interesting, because all of the other entries are mostly large things, like lumber trades or money loans. Yet he listed almost everything he received from you, including things like a single basket of eggs, or a delivery of flowers. Can you explain this?"

"What is your reasoning behind examining these so closely?" Falco asked, trying to change the subject subtlely. Lancelot smirked; the man was no master at hiding things. His color had reddened when Arthur had begun speaking.

"I'm helping the lady Ligeia determine what happened to her barn," Arthur replied, his face carefully blank. "Why do you ask?"

"I just wonder why an ex legionaire and his cohorts are so interested in the personal business of a well to do widow," Falco said, keeping his voice calm. Lancelot bristled at the man calling Arthur a legionaire, but Arthur squeezed his forearm, hard, and walked a little closer to the roman.

"Ex calvary, actually," Arthur corrected, and went on, "and I'm always interested in helping a family in need. Especially one that's been kind to me."

"Yes," Falco sneered, "Ligeia can be kind. When she wants something. That whole family was – is highly adept at asking for 'help.'"

It was Arthur's turn to bristle, and he stepped up to the other man, his height about the same as Falco's. They stared into each others eyes, Arthur finally breaking the contest.

"I don't know why you're so angry at the Orona family," he said quietly, dangerously, "but rest assured that anyone under my protection stays that way. I will get to the bottom of this."

He turned, and made to leave the room, Lancelot on his heels.

"Castus," the roman called. Arthur turned, his jaw muscles jumping, his knuckles white on the ledger books. "Yes, Senator?"

"I have no secrets in this community. Not now, at any rate." He smiled, a baring of white teeth, which made Arthur want to wipe the smarmy look off his face. "You know about Marcus' – disdain for his daughter, Olivia?"

Arthur nodded tightly. "It's been said he wasn't fond of the child."

"For a good reason. She wasn't his."

Arthur's lips flapped, and he tried to think of a reply. "What?" was the best he could do for the moment.

Falco laughed bitterly. "Like I said, I know the Orona family quite well. I know what they're capable of. And I know why Marcus kept a list of everything I ever did for him. Think about it, and you may actually figure it out for yourself. But that doesn't mean I had anything to do with her fire That was an unfortunate – accident."

He swept past the two men, and went deeper into the house, his toga dusting the floor.

Arthur's eyes closed, and he dropped his head. "Damn," he whispered. Lancelot took his arm, and walked him to the front door. They exited the house, where the silent yard man was waiting with their mounts.

They got on the animals, and rode through the cattle and the orchard again, not saying anything until they reached the dusty road that lead back toward Arthur's home.

"No wonder she befriended me," Arthur said, his voice full of hurt, tiny and still. "She needed someone to look after her daughter. Falco was bribing her husband to keep quiet. But why?"

Lancelot sawed on his reins when Arthur stopped, and rode back to the other man. "You couldn't have known," he said gently, "you were just being yourself. And do you blame her? A single man, with a home, obviously kind and available? What would you do if your source of protection suddenly died?"

Arthur's face was a mask of shock, and Lancelot sighed inwardly again at his friend's innocence. Arthur's belief in the inherent goodness of people had gotten him hurt too many times for Lancelot to count, and he was tired of seeing it happen. But he also knew that the quality was ingrained in Arthur, and he wouldn't be _Arthur_ without it. As much as Lancelot didn't like the results when someone betrayed the other man's belief in them, he knew it would keep on happening. People were just that way, even if he was the only one to see it.

Arthur's skin suddenly blanched white, and he raised his eyes to meet Lancelot's.

"Falco is her father."

"Yes, Arthur," Lancelot nodded wearily. "That would be the reason for him to give things to Marcus. And a reason for Marcus to keep inventory of what he was given. So Falco would never forget – and always owe Marcus for keeping silent."

Arthur's horse wheeled about, feeling it's rider's nervous manner. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it, his hands clutching the reins tightly. "So did he have Marcus killed? Did he start the fire – to get back at her? Something's not adding up here. It's too convenient that all these things have happened together."

Lancelot agreed, but couldn't think of a thing to say to make Arthur feel better. "I'm not sure, Arthur. But we can't figure it out sitting out here. The damn rains are coming back," he pointed to the large thunderheads ringing the horizon, "and we can think better when we're not soaked."

Arthur shook his head absently, and started his horse trotting back up the road. Lancelot silently thanked the gods, and followed, lightning beginning to show in the sky.

"I've got to speak with her," Arthur said suddenly, and turned his horse back, speeding up to a canter. He passed Lancelot, who cursed, and chased after him.

"Fuck – Arthur, stop! Not now, not when you're angry. It won't do either of you any good!"

His horse raced after Arthur's, who amped up to a full gallop.

They were both breathing heavily when they rode into the yard at Ligeia's home, Arthur sliding from his horse before the poor animal was barely at a stop.

Lancelot leapt from his mount as well, catching Arthur up and pulling at his arm. "Arthur, please, don't do this. You're not in the right frame of mind – besides, we can go back to the house and figure out what to do together. Surprising the lady won't do any good – she may not want to talk to you in your state."

Arthur shook his arm free, and kept striding toward the front door, which was flung open, Ligeia running out onto the steps. "Arthur," she said surprisedly, "what are you doing here?"

"Did you want someone to protect you from Falco's anger? Did you want a new father for your child? Or did you just find it amusing to befriend me because you were bored without your husband?"

Arthur stalked up to her, and Lancelot cursed again. His friend hardly ever lost his temper – but betrayal, in Arthur's mind, was a way to make sure that happened.

To her credit, the lady did not shy away from Arthur's physical proximity. Rather, she rose to her full height, which wasn't much shorter than Arthur's, and met his angry gaze.

"I made a mistake when I was young, and I've been paying for it for fourteen years. My daughter was deprived of a real father because of my actions. There was no way I could have known Marcus would take advantage of Falco the way he did. The moment he found out I was pregnant, he changed. He went from the man I married to a petty, jealous, unforgiving bastard, who was willing to do anything to get what he wanted out of the 'situation.'"

Arthur snorted. "And you thought I could fill the hole in Olivia's life. You befriended me because you wanted someone to raise her – and you weren't planning on telling me."

"Arthur, I befriended you because I thought you needed it. It was only after Olivia began to care for you that I got the idea that you would be good for us. I've been taken advantage of by man after man my whole life," she said calmly, turning at last from Arthur's side, moving down to the yard. Lancelot watched her, this turn of events not exactly what he had been expecting.

Arthur followed, his face stark and empty beneath his stubble. He heard a roaring in his ears, and could do nothing but trail after Ligeia, helpless to turn away, even though he didn't want to listen anymore.

"I made the mistake of falling in love with Lucius when I was already married," she kept on, "and sleeping with him was easy. Watching him spurn me the second he had had me was a lot harder. I was going to leave Marcus if that's what he wanted," she continued, "but he didn't want his friends or the other members of the community to see him as cuckolded. So he decided to tell everyone that Falco had raped me, and that way sully his name in the senate, unless Falco 'helped' us."

"And you did nothing? You stayed with him? Despite the knowledge that your husband was milking Falco out of everything he could? You let your husband bribe a senator for fourteen years!"

Lancelot watched the drama unfold, Arthur's sense of decorum unraveling quickly. He crossed his arms, and stood by one of the small fountains in the front yard as Arthur stormed after Ligeia.

"You know nothing of the ways of husbands and wives, do you? A batchelor, a military man…how dare you even try to condemn me? What gives you the right?"

The lady turned and faced Arthur, her tone sounding calm, but her words cutting. Arthur's body tremored as if he'd been hit. His betrayal by Rome was furthest from his mind now – he was shocked to the core that Marcus had been okay with corrupting a senator, and that Ligeia had _known_. And that Falco had agreed to it!

All he understood was that he had been lied to, from the start. Ligeia had _known_ her husband was bribing Falco, and yet hadn't said a word to Arthur when he asked about the ledger books. He felt a trampled upon, blind fool.

"I'm concerned for your daughter, Lady. You were the one who befriended me, after all. I didn't seek you out."

"I did. And I shouldn't have. Had I known you would be just like the rest of them, I wouldn't have bothered. Take your baggage and go home, Arthur Castus. Take your loyalties with their strings attached and your men and your spare horses and leave me be!"

Ligeia yanked the Sarmatian combs from her hair, spilling the length of it down her back, and chucked them at Arthur. They fell into the dirt, and she spun, running up the steps back into her home.

The door slammed, and silence decended upon them. Chickens bocked and noise was heard from the backside of the house, but Arthur didn't move.

Lancelot walked slowly to the combs, picking them up off of the ground, and put them in Arthur's hand. He led the other man to their horses, and they both mounted, Arthur's skin a greenish pallor, his hands tight on the reins.

Lancelot clucked to his mount, and tried to get Arthur to look him in the eye, but the other man just rode out, this time at a normal pace.

About halfway home, Arthur jerked at his reins suddenly, and threw himself off his horse. He ran for the thin treeline on the side of the road, but Lancelot stayed mounted, grabbing Arthur's horse's bridle so the animal wouldn't wander off.

Arthur came back a few minutes later, his gait stiff and wiping his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot.

He took the reins from Lancelot and rode on toward his home in the gathering dark from the coming storm.

end nine


	10. Ten

Ten.

"For pity's sake, Arthur, you have to be bored," Lancelot said, trying to keep the exhasperation out of his voice. His friend hadn't moved for half the night, but merely sat at his window and watched the wetness drain from the sky, the wind lashing his apple trees about and the rain turning his yard into a mudpit.

Lancelot plunked down into the seat next to Arthur, and rested his chin in his hand. He stared out into the dark, trying to figure out what Arthur saw. In truth, he knew Arthur didn't _see_ anything but his own perceived failure. Arthur hated being lied to, possibly more than anything else. He hated being thought a fool, and a naïve one at that. Two major blows in one day – that was a lot for one man.

The green and pearl decorations on the hair combs caught the light from the oil lamps in the room, and drew Arthur's eye. "Why do you have those?" he asked Lancelot, who shrugged.

"_I_ traded for them. I thought they shouldn't be thrown away."

He had found them on the ground outside the stables, presumedly where Arthur had dropped them. The other man would feel bad about it later, so Lancelot had picked them up, trying to do Arthur a favor.

He pocketed them, his gaze ticking to Arthur's fingers, which were bloodless, white and obviously chewed. One nail was bleeding slightly where Arthur had bitten it off too close to the quick, and Lancelot slid one of his hands between Arthur's gently, twining their fingers together so the other man couldn't jerk away.

"You'll torture yourself to death one day, you know," he sighed, petting Arthur's hand lightly, running his thumb over the heel of it. Arthur surprised him by not pulling away; instead, he leant over so his head was resting against Lancelot's. Their dark hair mingled, and in the scant light it would have been impossible to see where one started and the other stopped.

"I found myself praying all the way back here," he answered, and his voice made Lancelot want to go to Rome's door and kick down every priest or misinformed 'holy man' that had drummed the guilt and supplication into Arthur.

Instead, he gripped Arthur's fingers more tightly.

"I abandoned God, Lancelot," he went on, "because He abandoned me. And yet, I still find myself turning to Him without thinking when things go wrong. And that makes me a hypocrite. A worse quality I'm not sure I'll ever find.

"I thought things would be different here – that despite what happened to Pelagius – Rome was still Rome, the church would stand behind me, and the might of the empire would be enough for me to accept all those things I did in her name."

He tremored once, then was still. "I cannot reconcile what I have seen, and what I believed to be the truth. I thought I could. I cannot. And I don't – I don't know how to live with such different things inside of me."

Lancelot breathed out Arthur's name, but didn't interrupt, knowing he wasn't finished. Arthur didn't open up near enough, and Lancelot was willing to let the man talk til the end of time if it helped him.

"I only wanted to be friendly," he said at last, brokenly. "I thought them two innocent, lonely women who needed a kind face around. I thought they were true. I though she would trust me," he continued, and Lancelot noticed Arthur had switched from 'they' to 'she' but didn't comment, "the only thing I would ever ask of any friend is that they be truthful. And I told her things – things I hadn't told anyone. About my years in Britain. About the service, the dreadful parts and the joy. God!"

He stopped, and his bearing changed. The walls clanged down, the walls that Lancelot hadn't seen built around Arthur since the last weeks on the island. He extricated his fingers from Lancelot's slowly, and stood, moving toward the door.

"I need to think," he said, turning his head to look at Lancelot out of one eye. One eye that was blank and grey as slate, and Lancelot's own head dropped, his forehead meeting his knees.

Arthur left his rooms, and left Lancelot sitting there, numbness and anger and all the old feelings warring with his sorrow and love for the other man. He had been right in his mention earlier that Arthur was the only man who could get him to do or feel a lot of things – and at that moment, Lancelot was sorely tempted to just get on his horse, and ride out of there as fast as he could.

He made to stand, and the combs in his pocket made a raspy noise against the stone of the window seat.

Fuck.

Lancelot rose all the way, and eyed the outdoors. Massive storm hitting? Almost midnight? Angry lover and hurt friend of said lover? All present. Perfect timing to go riding.

He shook his head, and made for the stables, dashing through the rain.

A few lamps were still lit at the lady's house, and Lancelot waited at the door, his hair dripping nasty wet lines down his face.

At last the servant Gaius appeared, not happy to see visitors so late, but ushered him in anyway, informing him that Ligeia would receive him in the study shortly.

Lancelot stood before the newly burning fire, his body shaking from the cold, hands out to try and stave off a large case of shakes before Ligeia entered. He questioned again the wisdom of what he was doing, but before he could change his mind, the door opened and Ligeia met his eyes surprisedly.

"Sir," she said, the shock in her voice pushed to the back quickly, "you are soaking! Let me get you something." She bustled off before he could protest, and came back quickly with a large wool blanket which she wrapped around his shoulders. He nodded his thanks, and chattered a few moments before sitting on the offered stool in front of the blaze.

He reached into his pocket and held out the hair decorations that she had thrown at Arthur earlier. Ligeia jerked, then reached for them. "I'm glad you picked them up," she murmured, turning them over in her hands, not looking at him. "I do stupid things when I am angry. It's not a pleasant emotion for me – I don't like others to have to witness it."

She sounds like him. Lancelot sighed, the shudder making it all the way to his toes, and stared at the fire in front of him.

"You love him."

Lancelot's eyes ticked to his right and to Ligeia. He cocked his head, not quite understanding. "Arthur? Yes – I've known him for over half my life. He was my commander, and a great influence upon me during my 'formative years' as they say," he laughed, not hiding the bitterness in his tone.

"No," she said softly, finally raising her head to meet his eyes. "You love him. He loves you. You're his … other."

Lancelot felt his face flush, and tried to blame it on the fire by sidling closer. "I – I'm not sure what you're referring to, lady." Had Arthur told her something? He didn't know, but he would not discuss their relationship with her without being sure.

In truth, he'd rather not discuss it with her at all. He wasn't sure how to describe it to himself much less anyone else. He smiled at her, and raked a hand through his hair, getting it off his forehead, and tried to turn on the charm.

She laughed, a pretty sound that didn't fit the setting or either of their moods. "I knew he was distracted by someone else. I didn't know it would be another man," she continued, still watching his reactions, "but I see why now. You distract me – and I barely know you."

Lancelot barked a sound that should have been a laugh, but came out as more of a sob. "We have a – complicated friendship," he admitted, not willing to give away much more than that, and slightly taken aback by her comment. "Like I said, I've known him for a long while. Why do you ask?"

"Why did you return the combs to me? Aren't they yours? Or one of your comrades?"

Damn. What did Arthur tell this woman?

Lancelot drew in a short breath, snorting it out of his nose. He turned his eyes back to the brazier. "They were meant for my sister. I didn't get to send them to her. The commanders at out first garrison wouldn't let us use the post…said it was for roman use only. I kept them – they ended up with Arthur's things," he continued. "I know how it feels to lose him," Lancelot's voice dropped, a mere whispery thing that scratched his throat and made him feel like he was betraying Arthur by telling her, "and I thought you would want to have them back."

"He does love you," she said after a few moments of just the sound of the fire popping. "Don't doubt that. It's late," she stood, and he with her, depositing the blanket on the stool he had been sitting on, "you'll forgive me if I ask you to see yourself out?"

He inclined his head, and followed her out of the study. "Pleasant sleep, lady." She nodded back. "You as well, Lancelot."

She turned and walked back into the depths of the house, her expression troubled and the combs in her hands.

Lancelot looked to the ceiling, and asked himself silently for patience. He made his way back to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the damn rain.

His mount was standing miserably in the wet, and he patted the horses' nose absently as he swung into the saddle. Lightning flashed in the night sky, and he turned the mare to the road just as the broad side of a wooden club caught him under the chin.

Arthur was fighting with his guilt and his sense of duplicity in his study. He paced, the few lamps lit giving off smoke and burning weakly, which matched his mood. He had been unduly cruel to Ligeia. The lady had made a judgement mistake in his opinion, yes, but that was no reason to yell at her the way he had. She had befriended him when he had none. That alone should be reason enough for him to give her the benefit of the doubt. And he had gone and screamed at her. And she had thrown his gift at his feet.

He deserved no less. Thank god Lancelot had had the sense to pick them up.

At that thought, he moved out of the study, and made his way back to his rooms. He would return the combs to Ligeia in the morning, and beg her forgiveness.

Opening the door to his suite, he called out for Lancelot. He stopped in his tracks when the rooms turned out to be empty.

The house wasn't that big – where could he have gone?

Meandering throughout the place at first, then speeding up when he couldn't find the other man, Arthur started to worry. He ended up in the kitchen, the hearth fire still going, the household having retired a few hours earlier.

He stared into the yard, the wind still lashing the trees, hand on the doorknob.

He hesitated only briefly, then flung open the door, running through the pelting icy water to the stables, where he discovered one of his mares was gone.

"Blast!" he bellowed, "Where the hell did he go?"

I traded for them. I thought they shouldn't be thrown away.

"Damn it, Lancelot," he gritted, and saddled his own horse quickly. He urged the animal out into the rain, and kicked her into a canter, the rain running in rivulets down the collar of his tunic, soaking him further. He barely felt it.

Lancelot didn't think he could get any wetter, but it turned out he was wrong. The water that was dashed in his face got in his mouth when he grinned, but he couldn't resist the smile. It was all so – just so appropriate. Everything he'd ever done that involved Arthur had ended up in disaster or with large amounts of hurt being heaped upon one of them.

That was actually being a tad harsh, but at the moment, all the events he could think of that involved himself throwing out common sense in favor of trying to do something for Arthur were ones that had turned out badly. Or with him possesing lots of new bruises.

"What are you grinning about?" Falco asked, his irritation clearly showing. He held a riding crop in his hand, and was twisting the thing about, as if he were ready to try and relieve some tension.

Lancelot sighed, having the feeling again that this was not going to end well.

"I'm smiling because I can't seem to avoid situations like this," he answered, and shook his head. "I must be insane. Or highly bored. You'd think I would have learned by now."

"Yes, well, you'd think Castus could have figured out it was me that set fire to the barn," Falco echoed, "he doesn't seem that dumb. But one never knows, does one? There's really no reason for me to try and hide it now." He moved about, kicking something that was in his way. A low cry was heard afterwards, and Lancelot whipped his head around to see Ligeia layed out next to him, her arms bound behind her, her face swollen and purpled. Lancelot's rage suddenly became palpable; it was one thing to insult Arthur…it was another thing entirely to truss up a lady and beat her senseless without giving her a means to defend herself.

"You powerless ones always need to tie up the strong, don't you? So there's no way for them to actually have an equal chance to beat you?" Lancelot spoke through clenched teeth, and didn't expect the blow that came from the crop in Falco's hand. His head jerked back, and he let out a dark laugh as blood from the new wound dripped down his face to his chin.

"He'll come for you, I would expect," Falco said to both of them. "And then I can be rid of three troublesome little birdies with one stone."

"What's your problem with Arthur?" Lancelot asked; he was truly curious. He licked at some of the blood that was near his mouth.

"Nothing personal. I just don't need anyone else having any kind of reason to hold me down. I've been living in obeisance to this one's husband for too many long years because of one moment of lust," he answered, and kicked at Ligeia's leg again. She didn't cry out again, but chose to stare at him with hate filled eyes.

"If I had had any sense when I was young, I wouldn't have ever spoken to you," she spat. "What a truly despicable person you've become, Lucius."

"Ah, beautiful, pliant Ligeia," Falco said, leaning over her, his hand caressing her face once. She pulled away, shivering lightly but not showing any emotion but disgust. Lancelot was again amazed at the strength in the woman. He didn't know what he would have done in her situation.

"Too bad Olivia will have to grow up without a mother as well as a father."

Ligeia kicked and squirmed at his words, trying to break her bonds. "You leave her out of this – she's done nothing to you. She's blameless."

Lancelot tried to catch her eye to tell her to stop, but she wouldn't look at him. He knew too many people like Falco; once they had made a decision, they wouldn't change their minds. It was better to save your strength and try to get away when they were inevitably distracted by something.

That distraction proved to be the whinny of a horse, followed by the sounds of fighting and grunting. Lancelot could just make out latin cursing, and dropped his head.

Fuck, Arthur, just for once, stay home. And be safe.

The riding crop in Falco's hand was replaced by a gladius. That made Lancelot's worry rise more than a notch. He began to struggle as well, his own arms bound behind his back, but in a piss poor knot he was able to loosen rather quickly. He began to slip one hand free as he shouted to Arthur in warning. Falco kicked out at him, but Lancelot just kept working at the rope. A loud thump was heard on the closed door of the small room they were occupying; he guessed it to be the cannery or an offshoot of the laundry area. The door rattled again, something heavy thrown against it.

Falco cursed loudly, and moved to stand behind it. "Gaius?" he said in a dramatic whisper. Ligeia gasped, then bit her lip. Lancelot again was not surprised; why did it always turn out to be the damn servant?

Wham!

The door burst off its hinges, and the body of Ligeia's head of household flew into Falco's, knocking him over. Unfortunately he did not lose his grip on his gladius and shoved the unconcious man out of the way, leaping to his feet quickly.

"Gods damn it, Arthur, I could have gotten out of this without your help!" Lancelot had succeeded finally in getting his hands free, quickly untying his feet and feeling for the dagger he kept in his boot. Thank pity the idiot that had bound him hadn't checked for weapons.

"I'm sure you could have – but isn't it my duty to rescue you from embarassing situations?" Arthur called back, his chest heaving, a thin cut on his cheek bleeding from where Gaius had managed to slice him. Lancelot rolled his eyes, got to his feet, and pulled the lady to hers after releasing her from her bonds.

"Get out of here, lady," he hissed to her, "we'll take easy care of this fool." Ligeia shook her head violently. "No. I'll not leave you to fix my problems," she turned, reaching behind Lancelot and scrabbling in a drawer. She pulled loose a large butcher's knife, and spun around to face Arthur and Falco. Lancelot raised his eyebrows, but didn't respond immediately.

"Ligeia," Arthur called, never taking his eyes off Falco, "please, don't do this. You must take care…for Olivia's sake, if not your own."

Those were the magic words. Ligeia's spine snapped straight, and the knife fell unnoticed from her hands. She ran from the room, jumping over the fallen door, and disappeared into the rain. Arthur visibly slumped; Lancelot was glad he had managed to get the lady out – one less thing for them to worry about.

Lancelot sidled over to Arthur, and the two of them faced Falco, who suddenly looked a lot less confident, with two skilled fighters in front of him, and the body of his ally on the ground behind him.

"Look, Castus," he began, "this isn't your affair. Leave now, and I'll forget everything. You won't have to be involved."

Arthur snorted; he was too deeply involved already despite the wisdom, or lack thereof, of it. "I chose to make it my affair. Besides, what kind of person would I be if I let you take advantage of this family? Someone needs to care about them, for once. And you are obviously not man enough to let things go."

Lancelot sucked in a breath at that comment, and watched as Falco's face darkened in rage. Wrong thing to say, Arthur.

"Damn you, Castus," Falco replied, his body tensing, the gladius in his hand rising. "Wrong answer."

And he sprung, surprising Lancelot and Arthur, who jerked his own blade from his boot faster than Lancelot's eyes could follow, getting it out just in time to clang against the other man's sword.

Arthur laughed, a dangerous, cold sound that permeated his own bones and scared him. He hadn't made that kind of sound since the last days in Britain, and he hated it. He shot one elbow out, catching Falco under the chin, making the other man's teeth clack together as he bit down. Red liquid began to run, and Falco grinned; his common sense was gone now that Arthur had drawn first blood.

Lancelot dropped back, and circled slowly around the roman, the idea to get behind him and knock him out so Arthur wouldn't have to do something he would regret. Lancelot had seen that look on men's faces before; he hoped Falco would only be paying attention to Arthur now, who was slowly backing over the door, and out into the yard, where they would have more room to maneuver.

Lancelot followed, the rain soaking him immediately as Arthur and Falco squared off. The two men leapt at each other before Lancelot could blink, and went at it with a clash of metal on metal. Arthur wouldn't last long with the smaller knife against Falco's gladius, despite his greater skill.

Arthur's eyes ticked slightly over Falco's shoulder as he watched Lancelot approach steathily; he had no doubts about the other man's abilities, but didn't want to risk him either. He let out a growl, and redoubled his efforts against Lucius, long knife though it was, it was still a dagger versus Falco's sword.

He slashed at the other man, who had made the mistake of getting too close to try and sink his gladius into the soft skin of Arthur's belly. Arthur blocked the hilt of the sword with his forearm, his head singing with the rattle through his bones, and retaliated by slicing a long cut along Lucius' cheek.

"You will regret that," the other man gritted, but Arthur merely smiled and kept up his dance, his arm still throbbing painfully where Falco's sword had hit it.

Falco grinned back through the blood on his face, and whirled around to face a surprised Lancelot, who had just reached him. Stabbing out, the gladius sunk into Lancelot's hip, luckily not too deeply because of Lancelot's sense to try and dart out of the way. He brought his own dagger up in automatic response even as his hand dropped to his wound to try and staunch the flow of blood that was heating his thigh.

Arthur's yell of shock reached Lancelot's ears, and as Falco turned, he stabbed out, leaping forward with his dagger, hoping to reach anything vital.

Things slowed, and Lancelot staggered, releasing his hold on his blade as he felt it hit something soft. Falco turned bright, surprised eyes on him, and his fingers rose to his neck, where the dagger from Lancelot's boot protruded.

Lancelot stumbled again, and sat on the ground, hard, hand covering his hip, as his vision began to tunnel.

The last thing he saw before the blackness was Arthur's horrified expression as he stood between Lancelot and Lucius, both of them on the ground.

"Don't wory 'bout me," Lancelot slurred as Arthur finally moved, his hands tugging Lancelot's out of the way, his face going green when he got a good look at the wound on Lancelot's hip.

"You – damn it, Lancelot," Arthur groaned, tearing at his tunic, pressing the wad of it over the blood that was pouring onto the ground.

"Is he dead?" Lancelot managed to ask, dizziness making his eyes hard to open. Things would shrink, then go bright, then disappear altogether. Arthur nodded curtly. "Yes. Now be still."

"Can't be any other way," Lancelot laughed, too loudly, then let the lightheadedness overtake him.

He faintly heard Arthur's voice calling his name, and as much as he wanted to answer, he was just too tired.

end ten.


End file.
